“Yes--in the Alebi forest. I forget how it went, but you had a copy and I had a copy.” “What was it about?” Lambaire might have thought, had he not known Whitey, that the memorandum had slipped from his mind--but Lambaire was no fool. He did not pursue the subject, nor advance the suggestion which he had framed, that it would be better for all concerned if the two tell-tale documents were destroyed. Instead, he changed the subject. “Amber is in London,” he said, “he arrived last Saturday.” “What about the girl?” “She’s been back months,”--Lambaire made a little grimace, for he had paid a visit to Pembroke Gardens and had had a chilling reception. “You wouldn’t think she’d lost a brother,” he went on, “no black, no mourning, theatres and concerts every night--heartless little devil.” Whitey looked up sharply. “Who told you that?” he asked. “One of my fellers,” said Lambaire carelessly. “Oh!” said Whitey. He took out his watch. “I’ve got an appointment,” he said, and jerked his head to an approaching taxi. “See you at the Whistlers.” Whitey was a man with no illusions. The wonder is that he had not amassed a fortune in a line of business more legitimate and more consistent than that in which he found himself. Since few men know themselves thoroughly well, and no man knows another at all, I do not attempt to explain the complexities of Whitey’s mind. He had ordered the taxi-driver to take him to an hotel--the first that came into his head. Once beyond the range of Lambaire’s observation, he leant out of the carriage window and gave fresh instructions. He was going to see Cynthia Sutton. The difference between Lambaire and Whitey was never so strongly emphasized as when they were confronted with a common danger. Lambaire shrank from it, made himself deaf to its warnings, blind to its possibilities. He endeavoured to forget it, and generally succeeded. Whitey, on the contrary, got the closer to the threatening force: examined it more or less dispassionately, prodded it and poked it until he knew its exact strength. He arrived at the house in Pembroke Gardens, and telling the chauffeur to wait, rang the bell. A maid answered his ring. “Miss Sutton in?” he asked. “No, sir.” The girl replied so promptly that Whitey was suspicious. “I’ve come on very important business, my gel,” he said, “matter of life and death.” “She’s not at home, sir--I’m sorry,” repeated the maid. “I know,” said Whitey with an ingratiating smile, “but you tell her.” “Really, sir, Miss Sutton is not at home. She left London last Friday,” protested the girl; “if you write I will forward the letter.” “Last Friday, eh?” Whitey was very thoughtful. “Friday?” He remembered that Amber had returned on Saturday. “If you could give me her address,” he said, “I could write to her--this business being very important.” The girl shook her head emphatically. “I don’t know it, sir,” she said. “I send all the letters to the bank, and they forward them.”