He hadn’t been in bed five minutes before the light went out of the sitting-room. Mr. Carver was apparently settling himself to sleep. Tab’s dreams were happy, but they were strangely mixed. Within five minutes of his head touching the pillow, he was carrying Ursula through her scented garden and his heart was full of gratitude to providence that this great and wonderful prize had come to him. And then in his dream he began to feel uncomfortable. Glancing over his shoulder he saw the sinister figure of Yeh Ling watching him and he was in the garden no longer, but on the slope of a hill flanked by two huge pillars, and Yeh Ling stood at the entrance of his queer house arrayed in dull gold brocade. “_Bang.... Bang!_” Two shots in rapid succession. XXX He woke with a start. There was a rush of feet in the sitting-room and then--crash! He was out of bed in a second and into the sitting-room. Carver was nowhere to be seen and he felt by the draught that the door of the flat was wide open. He put his hand on the light switch and a voice from the darkness said: “Don’t touch that light!” It came from outside the door and it was Carver who was speaking. Below came the thud of the street-door closing. Carver came hurriedly into the room, passed him, ran to the window and looked out. “You can put it on now,” said Carver. A red welt was slashed across his face and it was bleeding slightly. He put up his hand and looked at it. “That was a narrow squeak,” he said. “Yes, he’s gone. I could have taken a chance and run downstairs after the door slammed, but even that might have been a fake to lure me into the open.” The whole building was awake now. Tab heard the sound of unlocking doors and voices speaking from above and below. “It was the cigar that gave me away,” said Carver ruefully. “I was a fool to smoke. He must have seen the red end in the darkness, and on the whole I think he shot pretty accurately.” There was a small Medici print hanging by the side of the window. The glass was shattered. A round bullet-hole showed on the white shoulder of Beatrice D’Este. Carver fingered the hole carefully. “That looks to me like an automatic,” he said. “He is getting quite modern. The last time he killed a man he used a type of revolver which was issued by the Chinese government to its officers some fifteen years ago. We know that from the shape of the bullet,” he went on unconcerned. “There is somebody at the door, Tab. You had better go and explain we have had another attack of burglaritis.” Tab was gone some ten minutes, quieting the tenants of the flats. When he returned he found Carver examining the track of the second bullet, which had struck the lower window sash and which had drilled a neat little hole. “Probably hit the wall opposite,” said Carver, squinting through. “The man below found this on the stairs,” said Tab. It was a small green-handled knife in a lacquered scabbard.