The domestic who answered Barthorpe's double knock at that house shook her head when he designedly asked for Mr. Frank Burchill. Nobody of that name, she said. But on being assured that there once had been a lodger of that name in residence there, she observed that she would fetch her mistress, and disappeared to return with an elderly lady who also shook her head at sight of the caller. "Mr. Burchill left here some time ago," she said. "Nearly six months. I don't know where he is." "Did he leave no address to which his letters were to be sent?" asked Barthorpe, affecting surprise. "He said there'd be no letters coming--and there haven't been," answered the landlady. "And I've neither seen nor heard of him since he went." Something in her manner suggested to Barthorpe that she had no desire to renew acquaintance with her former lodger. This sent Barthorpe away well satisfied. It was precisely what he wanted. The three people whom he had left in Portman Square in all probability knew no other address than this at which to seek for Burchill when he was wanted; they would seek him there eventually and get no news. Luckily for himself, Barthorpe knew where he was to be found, and he went straight off up Edgware Road to find him. Calengrove Mansions proved to be a new block of flats in the dip of Maida Vale; 35c was a top flat in a wing which up to that stage of its existence did not appear to be much sought after by would-be tenants. It was some time before Barthorpe succeeded in getting an answer to his ring and knock; when at last the door was opened Burchill himself looked out upon him, yawning, and in a dressing-gown. And narrowly and searchingly as Barthorpe glanced at Burchill he could not see a trace of unusual surprise or embarrassment in his face. He looked just as any man might look who receives an unexpected caller. "Oh!" he said. "Mr. Barthorpe Herapath! Come in--do. I'm a bit late--a good bit late, in fact. You see, I'm doing dramatic criticism now, and there was an important _premiere_ last night at the Hyperion, and I had to do a full column, and so--but that doesn't interest you. Come in, pray." He led the way into a small sitting-room, drew forward an easy-chair, and reaching down a box of cigarettes from the mantelpiece offered its contents to his visitor. Barthorpe, secretly wondering if all this unconcerned behaviour was natural or merely a bit of acting, took a cigarette and dropped into the chair. "I don't suppose you thought of seeing me when you opened your door, Burchill?" he remarked good-humouredly, as he took the match which his host had struck for him. "Last man in the world you thought of seeing, eh?" Burchill calmly lighted a cigarette for himself before he answered. "Well," he said at last, "I don't know--you never know who's going to turn up. But to be candid, I didn't expect to see you, and I don't know why you've come."