'Not many people, I admit. It's a solemn fact that my feelings are not of national importance; but when you've heard what I've got to say, perhaps you'll begin to feel uneasy; then it'll be my turn to make inquiries. You know that Mr. Smith I told you about?' I nodded. I had heard enough of the mysterious Smith. 'Yesterday afternoon, as I was going along Piccadilly on a 'bus, I saw him on the pavement. 'Alone?' 'He was alone right enough; though, for all I know, a ghost ought to have been walking by his side.' 'Mr. FitzHoward! What do you mean?' 'Aren't I going to tell you, if you'll wait? Even the best of women--and, Mrs. Merrett, you must pardon my saying that you are the best I ever met, and I've met some--are impatient.' I wished he'd stop his nonsense. 'I jumped off the 'bus, went up to Mr. Smith from behind, reached out my hand, and touched him on the shoulder. He gave such a jump that he made me jump too. I never saw a man so startled. He didn't look much happier when he saw me; he knew me right enough. "Good God!" he said. "You!" "Yes," I said. "Mr.--Mr. Smith, might I be permitted to inquire what you've done with Mr. Babbacombe?" I don't know what made me ask the question, at least in that way. It must have been a kind of inspiration. For when I did ask it, it seemed to strike him all of a heap. He gave a lurch so that I thought that he was going to fall; and if the wall of St. James's Church hadn't been handy for him to lean against, he'd have come a cropper. The sight he was took me quite aback. It made me think all sorts of things. I couldn't make it out at all. It was some time before he'd got hold of himself enough to speak; and then it was with a stammer. "What--what do you mean by--by asking me such a question?" "I asked it because I want an answer. What's become of him since you had that interview with him at the York Hotel?" "How do you know I had an interview with him?" "That's tellings. I know one or two things, and I want to know one or two more. Mr. Smith, what have you done with Mr. Babbacombe?" "I know nothing whatever, sir, of the person to whom you refer." He tried to pull himself together, and pass things off with an air. But it wasn't altogether a success. Just as he was making as if to take himself off, a friend came rushing up to him. "Hollo, Howarth!" he cried, "you're the very man I wanted to see." I pricked up my ears at this. "Excuse me, sir," I said. "Is this gentleman's name Howarth?" The friend looked me up and down; like those swells do. "Who's this?" he asked. Mr. Smith--or Mr. Howarth--took his arm. "Some person who wishes to make himself offensive to me." And he was going to walk off. But I got in front of him. "Excuse me, Mr. Smith, or Mr. Howarth, or whatever your name is, but before you go perhaps you'll tell me what you've done with Mr. Babbacombe." He was more himself by now, and looked at me in a way I didn't like; as if I was so much dirt under his feet. "What's he mean?" asked his friend.