Talham had taken it for granted that Tillizinni, despite all his multifarious interests, would grasp the opportunity to visit the Celestial Kingdom and enjoy the adventure which his enterprise promised. “Everything, of course, depends upon what happens to Soo,” the detective went on. “I can’t leave if he’s arrested, I can’t leave if he’s not arrested. Our only hope for my holiday is that Soo, in some mysterious fashion which is peculiarly his, makes his escape from this country.” As a matter of fact, the detective did not leave that week nor the next, nor that which followed. On the Saturday of the third week came a letter; it bore the postmark of Madison Square Gardens post-office, and was in the handwriting of Soo. It was brief, and reiterated the threat which he had uttered in his shorter epistle, but more specifically, in language which need not be repeated nor transcribed. Tillizinni locked it away with the other documents affecting the case and prepared for his departure. * * * * * There was one man as interested in the movement of Soo as Tillizinni. Old Raymond de Costa, a bitter and hateful man, and also a fearful man. He dreaded the law on the one side, and the vengeance of Soo on the other, if it ever came out that it was he who had played him false. The news published in the morning papers that Soo had reached America came as a great relief to the old man; it freed him to pursue his private feud against Tillizinni and his insufferable friend. He discovered the loss of the document for which he had sacrificed so much, yet did not associate the detective with the theft until his valet drew attention to the ink-spot on the dress shirt which came back from the laundry. “You’ve had some ink on your shirt, sir,” said the man. With a scowl De Costa remembered the circumstances under which it had been acquired. “Yes, throw it away,” he said shortly. The man folded up the garment with a little smile. De Costa detected it, and turned on him the vials of his vitriolic wrath. “I’m very sorry, sir,” said the man apologetically. “I wasn’t smiling at the shirt, I was just remembering how a gentleman I once valeted was robbed of fifty pounds.” “I don’t want to hear about it,” growled the old man. Then curiosity got the better of him. “I suppose you’re aching to tell me,” he said ungraciously. “How was it?” “It happened in the West End,” said the valet. “A man was writing a note with a fountain-pen in the vestibule of one of the cafés. He happened to shake it, and some drops fell on the gentleman’s shirt. The gentleman who did it was very sorry and wiped it off with his own silk handkerchief, but my master lost a bundle of notes from the inside pocket of his coat whilst the wiping process was going on.” As he proceeded, De Costa’s face was a study. He realised now how the paper came to be lost.