“If you are worthy enough to untie them,” grinned Mr. Wagstaffe, and held out a wet and rather muddy shoe. But there were no diamond-rings in Mr. Wagstaffe’s shoes. “Good-bye,” said Mr. Wagstaffe amiably. “_Au revoir_,” the detective grinned. He was annoyed. “You’ll see more of me, _Mr._ Wagstaffe. Call on you soon, perhaps.” The young man turned round at the door. “Going to search all the guests?” he asked. “’Course not. But you had no right in the house. You was loitering suspiciously.” “Going to search the other people who came unasked?” asked Mr. Wagstaffe gently. “Don’t pull any of that on me, young man,” said the plain-clothes man. “You was the suspicious character on the premises when the diamond-ring was stolen, and you’ll hear more of it.” The cavalier of the streets advanced gently upon the plain-clothes man, and gently he smiled upon him. “If you knew more of your London,” said he, “you would know that there were at least five other suspicious characters in this house, of whom not more than two could have been invited. And the next time you come near me you had better bring a posse along with you for protection, for at one more word from you I will smite you in such a manner that if you don’t fall down instantly I shall have to run behind you to see what’s holding you up. Good-afternoon.” As Mr. Wagstaffe emerged from the little room into the spacious hall a young lady passed him towards the door. She passed swiftly, intently, and sweetly, for she was a pretty young lady. She was dressed like a flower, a flower from a garden sweeter than the spacious garden of Mrs. Waite, and as she passed by the cavalier of the streets a faint scent pierced the rain-sodden air of the outer hall. “Chypre,” thought Mr. Wagstaffe, for it was his business to know these things. “Good-afternoon,” said Mr. Wagstaffe amiably; but the young lady, the very smart young lady, passed him without a glance into a waiting taxi-cab outside. The cavalier of the streets whistled gently as he walked away in the rain. He walked not because he liked walking, but because he had not the price of a taxi in the world, because the Underground was offensive to his sensitive nerves, and because busses bored him. III In an obscure but not unclean street towards the northern fringe of Soho there is to be found by the seeker after experience a restaurant, where gentlemen in Mr. Wagstaffe’s predicament may dine very passably; and, on having inscribed the bill with their temporarily worthless signatures, pay on some happier day. Very seldom, indeed, had the cavalier of the streets actually fallen to this pass; these were his most unfortunate days; and not even a bottle of the Rhine wine for which M. Stutz was famous--for such was the name of the polite and amiable _patron_ of the Mont Agel Restaurant--was, on this evening, able to support him in the sardonic optimism with which he had always parried the most cruel thrusts of a vagabond destiny.