The other wheeled an armchair across the room and T. X. sank into it. He leant back and crossed his legs, and was, in a second, the personification of ease. “I think you are a very clever man, Monsieur Kara,” he said. The other looked down at him this time without amusement. “Not so clever that I can discover the object of your visit,” he said pleasantly enough. “It is very simply explained,” said T. X. “You know everybody in town. You know, amongst other people, Lady Bartholomew.” “I know the lady very well indeed,” said Kara, readily,--too readily in fact, for the rapidity with which answer had followed question, suggested to T. X. that Kara had anticipated the reason for the call. “Have you any idea,” asked T. X., speaking with deliberation, “as to why Lady Bartholomew has gone out of town at this particular moment?” Kara laughed. “What an extraordinary question to ask me--as though Lady Bartholomew confided her plans to one who is little more than a chance acquaintance!” “And yet,” said T. X., contemplating the burning end of his cigarette, “you know her well enough to hold her promissory note.” “Promissory note?” asked the other. His tone was one of involuntary surprise and T. X. swore softly to himself for now he saw the faintest shade of relief in Kara's face. The Commissioner realized that he had committed an error--he had been far too definite. “When I say promissory note,” he went on easily, as though he had noticed nothing, “I mean, of course, the securities which the debtor invariably gives to one from whom he or she has borrowed large sums of money.” Kara made no answer, but opening a drawer of his desk he took out a key and brought it across to where T. X. was sitting. “Here is the key of my safe,” he said quietly. “You are at liberty to go carefully through its contents and discover for yourself any promissory note which I hold from Lady Bartholomew. My dear fellow, you don't imagine I'm a moneylender, do you?” he said in an injured tone. “Nothing was further from my thoughts,” said T. X., untruthfully. But the other pressed the key upon him. “I should be awfully glad if you would look for yourself,” he said earnestly. “I feel that in some way you associate Lady Bartholomew's illness with some horrible act of usury on my part--will you satisfy yourself and in doing so satisfy me?” Now any ordinary man, and possibly any ordinary detective, would have made the conventional answer. He would have protested that he had no intention of doing anything of the sort; he would have uttered, if he were a man in the position which T. X. occupied, the conventional statement that he had no authority to search the private papers, and that he would certainly not avail himself of the other's kindness. But T. X. was not an ordinary person. He took the key and balanced it lightly in the palm of his hand. “Is this the key of the famous bedroom safe?” he said banteringly.