Whitey had sprung to his feet, his face was unusually pale, his eyes narrowed till they were scarcely visible, his hands twitched nervously. “Oh, you--you know, do you?” he stuttered. “I told Lambaire that you knew--that’s your game, is it? Well, you look out!” He wagged a warning finger at the astonished young man in the chair. “You look out, Amber! Forty Thieves and Ali Baba, eh? So you know all about it--who told you? I told Lambaire that you were the sort of nut that would get hold of a job like this!” He was agitated, and Amber, silent and watchful, twisted himself in his seat to view him the better, watching his every move. Whitey picked up his hat, smoothed it mechanically on the sleeve of his coat, his lips were moving as though he were talking to himself. He walked round the table that stood in the centre of the room, and made for the door. Here he stood for a few seconds, framing some final message. “I’ve only one thing to say to you,” he said at last, “and that is this: if you want to come out of this business alive, go in with Lambaire--he’ll share all right; if you get hold of the chart, take it to Lambaire. It’ll be no use to you without the compass--see, an’ Lambaire’s got the compass, and Lambaire says----” “Get out,” said Amber shortly, and Whitey went, slamming the door behind him. Amber stepped to the window and from the shadow of the curtain watched his visitor depart. A cab was waiting for him, and he stepped in. “No instructions for driver,” noted Amber. “He goes home as per arrangement.” He rang a bell and a maid appeared. “My servant,” he said, regarding her with immense approval, “we will have our bill--nay, do not look round, for there is but one of us. When we said ‘we,’ we spoke in an editorial or kingly sense.” “Also,” he went on gaily, “instruct our boots to pack our belongings--for we are going away.” The girl smiled. “You haven’t been with us long, sir,” she said. “A king’s messenger,” said Amber gravely, “never stays any length of time in one place; ever at the call of exigent majesty, burdened with the responsibilities of statescraft; the Mercury of Diplomacy, he is the nomad of civilization.” He dearly loved a pose, and now he strode up and down the room with his head on his breast, his hands clasped behind him, for the benefit of a Bloomsbury parlourmaid. “One night in London, the next in Paris, the next grappling with the brigands of Albania, resolved to sell his life dearly, the next swimming the swollen waters of the Danube, his dispatches between his teeth, and bullets striking the dark water on either side----” “Lor!” said the startled girl, “you _does_ have a time!” “I does,” admitted Amber; “bring the score, my wench.” She returned with the bill, and Amber paid, tipping her magnificently, and kissing her for luck, for she was on the pretty side of twenty-five. His little trunk was packed, and a taxi-cab whistled for.