"Mistress should ask Joseph," he muttered. "I know nothing." "Oh, mistress is going to ask Joseph all right," she assured him, "but I want a little information from you, too. You've got to earn your freedom, you know, Hassan. Come, what do they do with the people who disappear from the restaurant?" "Not understand," was the almost piteous reply. Pamela sighed. She had again the air of one being patient with a child. "See here, Hassan," she went on, "a few days ago I went over that restaurant from top to bottom with the manager. There is the musicians' room, isn't there, just over the entrance hall? I suppose those little glass places in the floor are movable, and then one can hear every word that is spoken below. I am right so far, am I not?" Hassan answered nothing. His breathing, however, had become a little deeper. "An unsuspecting person, passing from the toilet rooms upstairs, could easily be induced to enter. I think that there must be another exit from that room. Yes?" "Yes!" Hassan faltered. "To where?" "The wine-cellars." "And from there?" Hassan was suddenly voluble. Truth unlocked his tongue. "Not know, mistress--not know another thing. No one enters wine-cellar but three men. One of those not know. If I guess--I, Hassan--I look at little chapel left standing in waste place. Perhaps I wonder sometimes, but I not know." Pamela drew three notes from her gold purse, smoothed them out and handed them over. "Three pounds, Hassan, silence, and good day! You'll live longer if you open your windows now and then, and get a little fresh air, instead of praying yourself hoarse." Again the black figure swayed perilously towards her. She affected not to notice, not to notice the hand which seemed for a moment as though it would snatch the door handle from her grasp. She passed out pleasantly and without haste. The last sound she heard was a groan. "Done your bit o' business, eh?" the landlady asked curiously. Pamela nodded assent. "Rather an odd sort of lodger for you, isn't he?" "Not so odd as his visitors," the woman retorted, with an evil sneer. Pamela passed into the narrow street and drew a long sigh of relief. Then she entered her car and gave the chauffeur an address from the slip of paper which she carried in her hand. When they stopped outside the little block of flats he prepared to follow her. "Tough neighbourhood this, madam," he said. "Maybe, George," she replied, waving him back, "but you've got to stay down here. If the man I am going to see thought I was frightened of him I wouldn't have a chance. If I am not down in half an hour you can try number 18C." The chauffeur resumed his place on the driving-seat of the car. Pamela, heartily disliking her surroundings, was escorted by a shabby porter to a shabbier lift. "You'll find Mr. Joseph in," the lift boy assured her with a grin.