contents of the third floor were to be judged from a show-case fixed on the wall in which whole mouthfuls of false teeth were symmetrically arranged. But the entrance to the fourth floor was guarded by a portal on which, by the aid of a match, Norman discovered bell-push and the gratifying legend, "British Consulate." The door opened mechanically. "A very advanced door," thought Norman as he stepped in, "for this locality." He found himself in a small and neat office, at the first glance not remarkable. Afterwards he noticed, to his surprise, that it was full of contrivances, such as wires and switches and taps--something between a railway signal-box and the manager's bureau in a telephone exchange. Its only occupant was a thin man, with ruffled, mud-coloured hair, who was rattling on a typewriter with as much vigour as an amateur pianist thumping the presto of the "Moonlight." "What do you want?" said the typist-clerk, very rapidly and sharply, in the tone of a vixenish and virtuous housewife accosted by blundering vice in a dark street. "I should like to see the Consul," replied Norman. "Why?" said the clerk, clicking on a new line and rattling off again. "Even the British Consulate has gone mad in Alsander," thought Norman, in despair. "Or does he mean to be rude?" "I have some urgent private affairs to discuss," he said. "Passport?" urged the clerk. "I'm afraid I haven't got one," said Norman. "Name?" insisted the clerk. "Price," snapped Norman, thankful it was monosyllabic. The clerk seized a table telephone with one hand, while he still fumbled the keys with the other. "Price--private--no passport," he shouted into the vulcanite ear. "I must have come to the American Consulate by mistake," thought Norman, amazed at this un-British efficiency. "In!" roared a voice into the telephone. Norman could clearly hear it; it came from the next room. The clerk pushed a button, the inner door opened, and Norman found himself in the presence of H.B.M. Consul,[1] Alsander.