“Well, well, my man,” he said impatiently, “why the devil do you keep me waiting on the doorstep of my friend Jesse’s house, eh?” He removed one of his hands from his pocket, possibly not the cleanest one, and tugged at his short grey beard. “Mr.--er--Mr. Trasmere is out,” said Walters, “I will tell him you have called. What name, sir?” “Wellington Brown is my name, good fellow,” said the stranger. “Wellington Brown from Chei-feu. I will come in and wait.” But Walters barred the way. “Mr. Trasmere has given me strict orders not to admit anybody unless he is in the house,” he said. A wave of anger turned Wellington Brown’s face to a deeper red. “He has given orders!” he spluttered. “That I am not to be admitted--I, Wellington Brown, who made his fortune, the swindling old thief! He knows I am coming!” “Are you from China, sir?” blurted Walters. “I have told you, menial and boot-licking yellow-plush, that I am from Chei-feu. If you are illiterate, as you appear to be, I will explain to you that Chei-feu is in China.” “I don’t care whether Chei-feu is in China or in the moon,” said Walters obstinately. “You can’t come in, Mr. Brown! Mr. Trasmere is away--he’ll be away for a fortnight.” “Oh, won’t I come in!” The struggle was a brief one, for Walters was a man of powerful physique, and Wellington Brown was a man nearer to sixty than fifty. He was flung against the stone wall of the porch and might, in his bemused condition, have fallen had not Walters’ quick hand grabbed him back. The stranger breathed noisily. “I’ve killed men for that,” he said, jerkily, “shot ’em down like dogs! I’ll remember this, flunkey!” “I didn’t want to hurt you,” said Walters, aggrieved that any onus for the unpleasantness should rest on him. The stranger raised his hand haughtily. “I will settle accounts with your master--remember that, lackey! He shall pay, by God!” With drunken dignity, he walked unsteadily through the patch of garden that separated the house from the road, leaving Walters a puzzled man. IV At nine o’clock that night the bell of Tab Holland’s flat rang long and noisily. “Who the dickens is that?” he growled. He was in his shirt-sleeves, writing for dear life and the table was strewn with proofs of his industry. Rex Lander came out of his bedroom. “Your boy, I expect,” he said. “I left the lower door open for him.” Tab shook his head. “The office is sending for the copy at eleven,” he said. “See who it is, Babe.” Mr. Lander grumbled. He always grumbled when he was called upon for physical effort. He opened the door and Tab, hearing a loud and unfamiliar voice, joined him. On the landing without, was a bearded, swaying figure and he was talking noisily. “What is wrong?” asked Tab. “Everything, sir,” hiccoughed the caller, “everything is wrong. A man, a gen’leman cannot be robbed with impunity or assaulted by me-menials with--with--” He considered a moment and added: “impunity.”