When Chesney Praye left the house in Chester Square he looked left and right, and presently saw what he sought. An idle man, standing at the corner of the street, his back towards the red-faced young man. Hesitating only a moment, he turned resolutely towards the seemingly unconscious Michael Dorn. “Look here, Dorn!” Dorn turned round slowly. “Good morning, Mr. Praye,” he said, with a lift of his eyebrows, as though the man who confronted him was the last person in the world he expected to meet in that place at that time. “What’s your idea in tailing me?” Michael Dorn’s eyebrows met in seeming perplexity. “‘Tailing’? Oh, you mean following you, I suppose? I haven’t quite got used to the argot of the London underworld. In India we call it----” “Never mind what you call it in India,” said the other roughly. “What’s the great idea?” Dorn looked at him with a thoughtful expression. “Are you under the impression that I’m tailing you?” “I’m not only under that impression--I know,” said the other, his face growing darker. “I spotted you this morning when I came out of my rooms in St. James’ Street, and thought you were there by accident. And one of your bloodhounds has been up to the Limbo Club, pumping the waiters. What’s the general scheme?” “Curiosity,” murmured the other, “just idle curiosity. I’m thinking of writing a book on the bizarre criminal, and naturally you’d have a few pages all to yourself.” Chesney Praye’s eyes were veritable slits as he tapped the other gently on the waistcoat. “I’m going to give you a tip, Dorn,” he said. “Keep your finger out of my pie, or you’re going to get it burnt!” “One good tip deserves another,” said Dorn. “And mine is, keep your finger off my waistcoat or you’ll be severely kicked!” He said it in the most pleasant manner, but the furious man knew that he meant every word, and dropped his hand. Before he could master his wrath, Dorn went on: “You’ve got a good job, Praye--don’t lose it. I understand that you’re financial adviser to a very noble lady--unprepossessing, but noble. If, by chance, I hear you’re advising her to put money in some of your wildcat schemes, or advising her to finance some of the little gambling houses which you have found so profitable in the past, I shall be coming right along after you with a real policeman.” “You damned amateur!” spluttered the other. “You have found the chink in my armour.” Dorn was coolness itself, and the shadow of laughter gleamed in his fine eyes. “I hate being called ‘amateur’! I have warned you.” “You’re not in India now----” began Chesney, and recognised his mistake too late.