Such an instruction was remarkably pleasing to him. There was much that he had to do and that night's freedom would assist him materially. “Perhaps” Kara hesitated, “perhaps you had better wait until eleven o'clock. Bring me up some sandwiches and a large glass of milk. Or better still, place them on a plate in the hall.” “Very good, sir,” said the man and withdrew. Down below, that grotesque figure with his shiny hat and his ragged beard was walking up and down the tesselated hallway muttering to himself and staring at the various objects in the hall with a certain amused antagonism. “Mr. Kara will see you, sir,” said Fisher. “Oh!” said the other glaring at the unoffending Fisher, “that's very good of him. Very good of this person to see a scholar and a gentleman who has been about his dirty business for three years. Grown grey in his service! Do you understand that, my man!” “Yes, sir,” said Fisher. “Look here!” The man thrust out his face. “Do you see those grey hairs in my beard?” The embarrassed Fisher grinned. “Is it grey!” challenged the visitor, with a roar. “Yes, sir,” said the valet hastily. “Is it real grey?” insisted the visitor. “Pull one out and see!” The startled Fisher drew back with an apologetic smile. “I couldn't think of doing a thing like that, sir.” “Oh, you couldn't,” sneered the visitor; “then lead on!” Fisher showed the way up the stairs. This time the traveller carried no books. His left arm hung limply by his side and Fisher privately gathered that the hand had got loose from the detaining pocket without its owner being aware of the fact. He pushed open the door and announced, “Mr. Gathercole,” and Kara came forward with a smile to meet his agent, who, with top hat still on the top of his head, and his overcoat dangling about his heels, must have made a remarkable picture. Fisher closed the door behind them and returned to his duties in the hall below. Ten minutes later he heard the door opened and the booming voice of the stranger came down to him. Fisher went up the stairs to meet him and found him addressing the occupant of the room in his own eccentric fashion. “No more Patagonia!” he roared, “no more Tierra del Fuego!” he paused. “Certainly!” He replied to some question, “but not Patagonia,” he paused again, and Fisher standing at the foot of the stairs wondered what had occurred to make the visitor so genial. “I suppose your cheque will be honoured all right?” asked the visitor sardonically, and then burst into a little chuckle of laughter as he carefully closed the door. He came down the corridor talking to himself, and greeted Fisher. “Damn all Greeks,” he said jovially, and Fisher could do no more than smile reproachfully, the smile being his very own, the reproach being on behalf of the master who paid him. The traveller touched the other on the chest with his right hand. “Never trust a Greek,” he said, “always get your money in advance. Is that clear to you?”