As quickly his unknown attacker jumped back. There was a deafening report. His feet were scorched with burning cordite, and momentarily he released his grip of his enemy's throat, which he had seized. He sensed rather than saw the pistol raised again, and made one of those lightning falls which he had learnt in far-off days from Japanese instructors of ju-jitsu. Head over heels he went as the pistol exploded for the second time. It was a clever trick, designed to bring the full force of his foot against his opponent's knee. But the mysterious stranger was too quick for him, and when Tailing leapt to his feet he was alone. But he had seen the face--big and white and vengeful. It was glimpse and guess-work, but he was satisfied that he knew his man. He ran in the direction he thought the would-be assassin must have taken, but the fog was patchy and he misjudged. He heard the sound of hurrying footsteps and ran towards them, only to find that it was a policeman attracted by the sound of shots. The officer had met nobody. "He must have gone the other way," said Tarling, and raced off in pursuit, without, however, coming up with his attacker. Slowly he retraced his footsteps to where he had left the policeman searching the pavement for same clue which would identify the assailant of the night. The constable was using a small electric lamp which he had taken from his pocket. "Nothing here, sir," he said. "Only this bit of red paper." Tarling took the small square of paper from the man's hand and examined it under the light of the lamp--a red square on which were written four words in Chinese: "He brought this trouble upon himself." It was the same inscription as had been found neatly folded in the waistcoat pocket of Thornton Lyne that morning he was discovered lying starkly dead. CHAPTER XIV THE SEARCH OF MILBURGH'S COTTAGE Mr. Milburgh had a little house in one of the industrial streets of Camden Town. It was a street made up for the most part of blank walls, pierced at intervals with great gates, through which one could procure at times a view of gaunt factories and smoky-looking chimney-stacks. Mr. Milburgh's house was the only residence in the road, if one excepted the quarters of caretakers and managers, and it was agreed by all who saw his tiny demesne, that Mr. Milburgh had a good landlord. The "house" was a detached cottage in about half an acre of ground, a one-storey building, monopolising the space which might have been occupied by factory extension. Both the factory to the right and the left had made generous offers to acquire the ground, but Mr. Milburgh's landlord had been adamant. There were people who suggested that Mr. Milburgh's landlord was Mr. Milburgh himself. But how could that be? Mr. Milburgh's salary was something under L400 a year, and the cottage site was worth at least L4,000.