It was about eleven o'clock, and Myles Desmond sat in his sitting-room scribbling an article for a society journal, called _Asmodeus_, published for the express purpose of unroofing people's houses, and exposing to the world their private life. Not that Desmond did such a thing, he would have scorned to violate the sanctity of private life, but he wrote for all kinds of magazines and papers, and as _Asmodeus_ paid well, he now and then wrote them a smart essay on existing evils, or a cynical social story. He was a tall young man, with reddish hair and moustache, a clever, intellectual face, perhaps not actually good-looking, but a face that attracted attention, and when he chose to exert himself, he could talk excellently on the current topics of the day. His breakfast lay on the table, untouched, he having only swallowed a cup of coffee, and then pushed the table-cloth aside to make room for his papers. Dressed in an old smoking-suit, he leaned one elbow on the table occasionally, ran his fingers through his hair and wrote rapidly, only stopping every now and then to relight his pipe. He was engaged in writing an essay on "Cakes and Ale," and satirising the vices of a new school of novelists, who, in their desire to become pure and wholesome, had gone to the other extreme and taken all the masculine vigour out of their productions. Myles looked worn and haggard, as if he had been up all night, and every now and then his swift pen would stop as he pondered over some thought. There was a ring at the bell below, but he took no notice. This was followed shortly afterwards by a knock at the door, and Rondalina glided in, saying a gentleman wished to see him. "Show him in," said Myles, not looking up. "Wonder who it can be," he muttered, as Rondalina went out; "hang those fellows, they won't even let me have the morning to myself." When the door opened he glanced up and saw that the new corner was not a friend, but a tall, grey man whom he did not know. Myles paused with his pen in his hand, and waited for his visitor to speak, looking at him interrogatively meanwhile. Mr. Dowker--tor of course it was he--closed the door carefully, and advancing to the table, introduced himself in two words: "Dowker--detective!" If Myles looked haggard before, he looked still more so now. His face grew pale, and he shot an enquiring glance at his visitor, who stood looking mournfully at him. Then, throwing down his pen in an irritable manner, he arose to his feet. "Well, Mr. Dowker?" he said a little nervously. "You want to see me." "I do--very particularly," replied Dowker, coolly taking a seat, "and believe you can guess what it's about." Myles drew his brows together, and shook his head. "No. I'm afraid I can't," he said coldly. "The Jermyn Street murder." Myles gave a kind of gasp, and turned away towards the mantel-piece, ostensibly to fill his pipe, but in reality to conceal his agitation.