One of the passengers was tall and soldierly in appearance. He had a heavy black moustache, and the breadth of his shoulders suggested great muscular strength. In the light much of his military smartness vanished, for his face was puffed, and there were little bags under his eyes. He was followed by a shorter man who looked much younger than he was, for his hair, eyebrows and a little wisp of moustache were so fair as to be almost white. His nose and chin were of the character which for want of a better description may be called “nut-cracker,” and down his face, from temple to chin, ran a long red scar. Alphonse Lambaire was the first of these men, a remarkable and a sinister figure. Whether Lambaire was his real name or not I do not profess to know: he was English in all else. You might search in vain the criminal records of Scotland Yard without discovering his name, save in that section devoted to “suspected persons.” He was a notorious character. I give you a crude biography of him because he figures largely in this story. He was a handsome man, in a heavy unhealthy way, only the great diamond ring upon his little finger was a departure from the perfect taste of his ensemble. The second man was “Whitey”: what his real name was nobody ever discovered. “Whitey” he was to all; “Mr. Whitey” to the club servants, and “George Whitey” was the name subscribed to the charge sheet on the one occasion that the police made an unsuccessful attempt to draw him into their net. The third was a boy of eighteen, fresh coloured, handsome, in a girlish fashion. As he stepped from the cab he staggered slightly and Lambaire caught his arm. “Steady, old fellow,” he said. Lambaire’s voice was deep and rich, and ended in a little chuckle. “Pay that infernal brute. Whitey--pay the fare on the clock and not a penny more--here, hold up, Sutton my lad.” The boy made another blunder and laughed foolishly. “We’ll put him right in a minute, won’t we, major?” Whitey had a high little voice and spoke rapidly. “Take his arm, Whitey,” said Lambaire, “a couple of old brandies will make a new man of you....” They disappeared through the swing doors of the club, and the hum of the departing taxi sounded fainter and fainter. The street was almost deserted for a few minutes, then round the corner from St. James’s Square came a motor-car. This driver also knew little of the locality, for he slowed down and came crawling along the street, peering at such numbers as were visible. He stopped before No. 46 with a jerk, jumped down from his seat and opened the door. “This is the place, miss,” he said respectfully, and a girl stepped out. She was very young and very pretty. She had evidently been spending the evening at a theatre, for she was dressed in evening finery, and over her bare shoulders an opera wrap was thrown. She hesitated a moment, then ascended the two steps that led to the club, and hesitated again. Then she came back to the car. “Shall I ask, miss?”