There was nothing for it but to carry out the suggestion contained in the letter, and meet the man in Praed Street at two o’clock. He must find out the nature of this mysterious discovery, and take steps to ensure that all evidence of it be securely destroyed. Lacey, of course, would demand some compensation for holding his tongue. The sum he demanded would depend upon the importance of what he had found. Well, they would discuss terms, alone in that empty house, in the very cellar which Mr. Martin remembered so well. Mr. Martin stroked his chin reflectively. What sort of fellow was this Lacey, he wondered? He himself was a powerful man, proud of his own powers of intimidation. It ought to be simple enough for him to destroy the evidence first then to tell Lacey to go to the devil and do his worst. He unlocked a drawer of his desk and drew from it a small automatic pistol, which he slipped into his pocket. It was with a smile that he remembered that Praed Street had recently acquired a sinister reputation. Well, if any accident should happen—— Mr. Martin’s office closed at one o’clock on Saturdays. He left a few minutes before that hour, having put John Lacey’s letter in his pocket and examined the mechanism of his automatic. Then he consumed a hasty lunch at a chop-house near-by, and walked down the street to Aldersgate Metropolitan station, where he took a ticket to Paddington. He emerged into Praed Street at about five minutes to two, and began to walk along that thoroughfare in the direction of Number 407. Praed Street, at this time on a fine afternoon, wore its usual air of busy activity. The exodus from central London was still at its height, the crowds still passed along in bus or taxi towards the portals of Paddington station. On the other hand, the inhabitants of the neighbourhood, released from work, were beginning their week-end shopping. The pavement was crowded, and Mr. Martin, who had some distance to walk to his destination, looked about him curiously. Since he had put up his shutters for the last time, fifteen years ago, he had rarely revisited Praed Street, and even then he had only traversed it in a taxi, going to or from Paddington. The street had changed a little since he had been an inhabitant of it. Certainly there were fresh names over many of the shops, and, here and there, there had been alterations to the buildings he remembered. He glanced at a board on the opposite side of the street. Elmer Ludgrove. That was new since his day. The rather musty-looking shop was conspicuous among its neighbours by being closed. Praed Street, as a rule, does most of its business on Saturday afternoon.