Broad shook his head. Not a word was spoken as they went up the passage to the front door, and it almost seemed as if Elk was going without saying good-bye, for he walked out absent-mindedly, and only turned as though the question of any farewell had occurred to him. “Shall be glad to meet you again, Mr. Broad,” he said. “Perhaps I shall see you in Whitehall——” And then his eyes strayed to the grotesque white frog on the door. Broad said nothing. He put his finger on the imprint and it smudged under his touch. “Recently stamped,” he drawled. “Well, now, what do you think of that, Mr. Elk?” Elk was examining the mat before the door. There was a little spot of white, and he stooped and smeared his finger over it. “Yes, quite recent. It must have been done just before I came in,” he said. And there his interest in the Frog seemed to evaporate. “I’ll be going along now,” he said with a nod. In the exquisitely appointed drawing-room of Suite No. 6, Lola Bassano sat cuddled up in a deep, over-cushioned chair, her feet tucked under her, a thin cigarette between her lips, a scowl upon her pretty face. From time to time she glanced at the man who stood by the window, hands in pockets, staring down into the square. He was tall, heavily built, heavily jowled, unprepossessing. All the help that tailor and valet gave to him could not disguise his origin. He was pugilist, run to fat. For a time, a very short time, Lew Brady had been welter-weight champion of Europe, a terrific fighter with just that yellow thread in his composition which makes all the difference between greatness and mediocrity in the ring. A harder man had discovered his weakness, and the glory of Lew Brady faded with remarkable rapidity. He had one advantage over his fellows which saved him from utter extinction. A philanthropist had found him in the gutter as a child, and had given him an education. He had gone to a good school and associated with boys who spoke good English. The benefit of that association he had never lost, and his voice was so curiously cultured that people who for the first time heard this brute-man speak, listened open-mouthed. “What time do you expect that rat of yours?” he asked. Lola lifted her silk-clad shoulders, took out her cigarette to yawn, and settled herself more cosily. “I don’t know. He leaves his office at five.” The man turned from the window and began to pace the room slowly. “Why Frog worries about him I don’t know,” he grumbled. “Lola, I’m surely getting tired of old man Frog.” Lola smiled and blew out a ring of smoke. “Perhaps you’re tired of getting money for nothing, Brady,” she said. “Personally speaking, that kind of weariness never comes to me. There is one thing sure; Frog wouldn’t bother with young Bennett if there wasn’t something in it.” He pulled out a watch and glanced at its jewelled face. “Five o’clock. I suppose that fellow doesn’t know you’re married to me?”