“It is not nonsense,” insisted the other, “when you are in Rome, et cetera, and when you have to deal with a low-class Greek you must use methods which will at least impress him. If you thrash him, he will never forgive you and will probably stick a knife into you or your wife. If you meet his melodrama with melodrama and at the psychological moment produce your revolver; you will secure the effect you require. Have you a revolver?” John went to his desk and, pulling open a drawer, took out a small Browning. “That is the extent of my armory,” he said, “it has never been fired and was sent to me by an unknown admirer last Christmas.” “A curious Christmas present,” said the other, examining the weapon. “I suppose the mistaken donor imagined from my books that I lived in a veritable museum of revolvers, sword sticks and noxious drugs,” said Lexman, recovering some of his good humour; “it was accompanied by a card.” “Do you know how it works?” asked the other. “I have never troubled very much about it,” replied Lexman, “I know that it is loaded by slipping back the cover, but as my admirer did not send ammunition, I never even practised with it.” There was a knock at the door. “That is the post,” explained John. The maid had one letter on the salver and the author took it up with a frown. “From Vassalaro,” he said, when the girl had left the room. The Greek took the letter in his hand and examined it. “He writes a vile fist,” was his only comment as he handed it back to John. He slit open the thin, buff envelope and took out half a dozen sheets of yellow paper, only a single sheet of which was written upon. The letter was brief: “I must see you to-night without fail,” ran the scrawl; “meet me at the crossroads between Beston Tracey and the Eastbourne Road. I shall be there at eleven o'clock, and, if you want to preserve your life, you had better bring me a substantial instalment.” It was signed “Vassalaro.” John read the letter aloud. “He must be mad to write a letter like that,” he said; “I'll meet the little devil and teach him such a lesson in politeness as he is never likely to forget.” He handed the letter to the other and Kara read it in silence. “Better take your revolver,” he said as he handed it back. John Lexman looked at his watch. “I have an hour yet, but it will take me the best part of twenty minutes to reach the Eastbourne Road.” “Will you see him?” asked Kara, in a tone of surprise. “Certainly,” Lexman replied emphatically: “I cannot have him coming up to the house and making a scene and that is certainly what the little beast will do.” “Will you pay him?” asked Kara softly.