“Upon the police being summoned, the man, who was suffering considerably from shock, stated that shortly after Mr. Robinson had left there had come a knock at the door. On opening it, he was confronted by a very tall and powerful-looking man, who, he is quite certain, was a gentleman. He was well dressed in a lounge suit and black bowler hat, but, to the valet's surprise and dismay, wore a mask over his face. “Continuing, the valet says that in less time than it took him to make the statement, the stranger had rushed into the flat and seized his throat in a vice-like grip. “His assailant then pushed a gag—which apparently consists of a torn pillowcase—into his mouth, and, throwing him to the floor, partially stunned him. “After this the stranger bound him hand and foot, subsequently lifting him bodily on to the bed, where he left him while he ransacked the rooms from top to bottom. “As far as can be judged at present, theft was not the motive of the stranger's extraordinary proceedings, for not a single thing is missing from Mr. Robinson's rooms, though every piece of paper has been turned over and every article of clothing evidently searched. “Presumably the mysterious assailant was looking for some particular object which he expected to be there. Whether he found it or not is open to question, and no further light can be thrown on the matter until Mr. Robinson returns.” “Mr. Robinson,” said Westerham to himself, “will return at once,” and, hailing a hansom, he directed the man to drive as fast as he could to Bruton Street. On the way he was rather troubled over the fact that he had called on Mme. Estelle, as it was quite possible that by this time the police had discovered where he had been during the afternoon, unless his chauffeur had been more discreet than usual. At Bruton Street Westerham found his rooms in much the same condition as the newspaper had described. The valet, pale and troubled-looking, was seated on a chair in the dining-room, evidently fending off question after question which was being put to him by a couple of men whom, without much effort of imagination, Westerham instantly recognised as detectives. As he stood on the threshold, the elder and taller of the two men left the valet and approached him. “You are Mr. Robinson?” he asked. Westerham nodded. “My name, sir,” said the big man, “is Inspector Rookley, from Scotland Yard. We were, of course, called in by the police in Vine Street. This is a most mysterious affair.” “Apparently,” said Westerham, easily. “I have been reading about it in the evening papers.” “I think it will be better,” said Mr. Rookley, gravely, “if my colleague takes your valet away while I make a few inquiries.” “I am not at all sure that I desire any inquiries to be made.” Mr. Rookley was first astounded and then suspicious. “But, sir,” he protested, “this is a most peculiar case.”