"Then I wish you good evening!" he exclaimed abruptly. "Act as you think proper!" he added defiantly, as, turning from me in disregard he walked to his large writing-table, where he took up some letters, at the same time singing, with that careless cosmopolitan air of his, Lucien Fugere's popular _chanson_, which at the moment one heard everywhere in the streets of Paris. "Then that's your last word, eh, Mr. Kirk?" I asked when he had concluded the verse. "It is," he replied determinedly. "If you must act as a fool, then I can't assist you further. Good night!" And he sat down and busied himself with his accumulated correspondence. I now realised that he was utterly defiant, and thoughts of my loss of Mabel caused my blood to boil within me. His light, careless manner irritated me beyond measure. "Very well," I cried. "Good night, Mr. Kirk!" And turning swiftly upon my heel, I left the room and found my way down the great staircase and out into Whitehall. Too late at that hour to call at New Scotland Yard, close by, I hailed a hansom and drove straight home, almost beside myself with rage at the calm, unruffled, defiant attitude with which the adventurer had met me. Next morning, after writing some letters, I went round to the garage, where I found Pelham, somewhat excited. "This morning, when I arrived at eight o'clock," he said. "I found awaiting me a rather shabbily-dressed old man who said he wanted to see an Eckhardt tyre. Recollecting my previous experiences of people who've come in to handle them, I told him that if he wished to buy one I could sell him one, but I hadn't time to waste on sightseers. Whereupon the old fellow promptly paid for a cover before seeing it, and took it away on a cab which he had waiting." "Well?" I asked, rather, surprised. "And who was he?" "That's the curious point. He was an old chap I've seen about the neighbourhood many times--thin, rather shabby and disreputable, grey hair and moustache--lives in your road, I think. Drake says you know him." "Kershaw Kirk!" I gasped. "Yes; that's the name Drake said before he went out with the `sixty,'" replied my manager. "What does he want with a tyre when he hasn't got a car?" I stood in silence. What, indeed, did that man want with one of the new tyres? Had he merely come down there to have further words with me, or did he require a cover for some specific purpose? My mind, however, was made up. I had resolved to go to New Scotland Yard, and, even though tardily, to place the whole of the facts before the Criminal Investigation Department. Therefore I got out the "forty-eight" and drove along the Hammersmith Road and Knightsbridge, across St. James's Park, and through Storey's Gate to Whitehall. I alighted in the big courtyard of the police headquarters, where a number of motor-'buses were drawn up for inspection, and entered the large stone hall, when a constable came forward to inquire my business.