“If you please, John.” She stood on the pavement watching the driver as he knocked on the glass-panelled door. A servant came and held the door open, regarding the chauffeur with an unfriendly eye. “Mr. Sutton--no, we’ve no such member.” “Tell him he’s here as a guest,” said the girl, and the waiter, looking over the head of the chauffeur, saw her and frowned. “He’s not here, madame,” he said. She came forward. “He is here--I know he is here.” Her voice was calm, yet she evidently laboured under some excitement. “You must tell him I want him--at once.” “He is not here, madame,” said the man doggedly. There was a spectator to the scene. He had strolled leisurely along the street, and had come to a standstill in the shadow of the electric brougham. “He is here!” She stamped her foot. “In this wretched, wicked club--he is being robbed--it is wicked--wicked!” The waiter closed the door in her face. “Pardon me.” A young man, clean-shaven, glass in eye, dressed in the neatest of tweed suits, stood by her, hat in hand. He had the happiest of smiles and a half-smoked cigarette lay on the pavement. “Can I be of any assistance?” His manner was perfect, respect, deference, apology, all were suggested by his attitude, and the girl in her distress forgot to be afraid of this providential stranger. “My brother--he is there.” She pointed a shaky finger at the bland door of the club. “He is in bad hands--I have tried....” Her voice failed her and her eyes were full of tears. Amber nodded courteously. Without a word he led the way to her car, and she followed without question. She stepped in as he indicated. “What is your address?--I will bring your brother.” With a hand that trembled, she opened a little bag of golden tissue that hung at her wrist, opened a tiny case and extracted a card. He took it, read it, and bowed slightly. “Home,” he said to the driver, and stood watching the tall lights of the brougham disappear. He waited, thinking deeply. This little adventure was after his own heart. He had been the happiest man in London that day, and was on his way back to the modest Bloomsbury bed-sitting-room he had hired, when fortune directed his footsteps in the direction of Curefax Street. He saw the car vanish from sight round a corner, and went slowly up the steps of the club. He pushed open the door, walked into the little hall-way, nodding carelessly to a stout porter who sat in a little box near the foot of the stairs. The man looked at him doubtingly. “Member, sir?” he asked, and was rewarded by an indignant stare. “Beg pardon, sir,” said the abashed porter. “We’ve got so many members that it is difficult to remember them.” “I suppose so,” said Amber coldly. He mounted the stairs with slow steps; half-way up he turned. “Is Captain Lawn in the club?” “No, sir,” said the man. “Or Mr. Augustus Breet?” “No, sir, neither of those gentlemen are in.”