“H’m,” grunted Anthony. “He does, does he?” He pushed his plate on one side, pulled at his top lip and lit a cigarette. “I wonder who’s been singing my praises to this gentleman who writes so enigmatically? I can hardly suppose that he has had any immediate connection with Scotland Yard that has caused him to run across Detective-Inspector Goodall—and I haven’t heard that Baddeley has reached the Metropolis yet—still—after all—it’s a small world and sometimes people link up quite unexpectedly.” He looked at his watch. It showed the time at half-past nine. “Two hours before my unknown caller arrives.” He walked to the bookcase and took down what he always described as his “Encyclopædia of London.” Turning to the section dealing with hotels—he found the “Florizel” and rapidly read through the particulars given. The tariff was extremely high—in every particular—and it quickly became obvious to him that the hotel concerned could only be within the range of the comparatively wealthy. He took the letter from the table again—and gave it yet another close inspection. The paper was not the hotel notepaper, the address “Hotel Florizel, W.” having been written at the top by the writer of the letter. He held the notepaper up to the light—without tangible reward. The writing was firm and bold—somewhat florid in style and letter-formation—yet withal—the writing of an educated man. If it had any special feature it lay in the somewhat ornate formation of the capital letters. The three “T’s” the “B,” and the “Y”—looked un-English somehow. There was an ornamentation about them that gave Anthony much food for consideration. “‘German,’ in my opinion,” he murmured to himself after a moment or two, “possibly a German professor who has mislaid his science notebook containing the recipe for diamond-making. That would account for the heavy demands to be made upon my powers of discretion! Still—I’m making a mistake theorising with precious little data to build upon. I’ll go for a stroll till the time comes for me to receive my mysterious client.” He put on his hat and went out. He was a firm believer in as much walking exercise as was humanly possible, as a sure means to physical fitness. In his case physical fitness coincided completely with mental fitness; he was a splendid example of the “_Mens sana_” doctrine. At twenty minutes to twelve—or to be absolutely accurate—at eleven-thirty-eight, Bathurst heard a car draw up outside his flat. He quickly walked to the window that commanded the street and looked down. “Rolls-Royce, eh,” he said to himself, “I’m moving in more illustrious circles than ever.” A minute or two later there came a rather peremptory tap upon the door of his room. “Come in,” he called. His visitor entered at the invitation. “Have I the pleasure to address Mr. Anthony Bathurst?” he interrogated. “You have,” replied that gentleman—indicating the arm-chair with a graceful gesture—“won’t you sit down?”