Mr. Plank, Bellamy’s clerk, had no superior in his profession, one which is the most searching test of character and adaptability. Not one of the devious and manifold tricks of his trade was unpractised by him, and his income was £1,250 per annum, a fact which the Inland Revenue Authorities strongly suspected but were quite unable to establish. He liked Mr. Bellamy, personally well enough, financially very much indeed. It was not surprising, therefore, that many seismic recording instruments registered sharp shocks at four p.m. on June 12th, 192-, a disturbance caused by the precipitous descent of Mr. Plank’s jaw when Mr. Bellamy instructed him to accept no more briefs for him for the next three months. “But,” continued that gentleman, “here is a cheque which will, I trust, reconcile you to the fact.” Mr. Plank scrutinised the numerals and was reconciled. “Taking a holiday, sir?” he asked. “I rather doubt it,” replied Bellamy. “But you might suggest to any inquisitive enquirers that that is the explanation.” “I understand, sir.” From then till midnight, with one short pause, Bellamy was occupied with a pile of exotically bound volumes. Occasionally he made a note on his writing pad. When his clock struck twelve he went to bed and read _The Wallet of Kai-Lung_ till he felt sleepy enough to turn out the light. At eight o’clock the next morning he was busy once more with an exotically bound book, and making an occasional note on his writing pad. Three weeks later he was bidding a temporary farewell to Mr. Solan, who remarked, “I think you’ll do now. You are an apt pupil; pleading has given you a command of convincing bluff, and you have sufficient psychic insight to make it possible for you to succeed. Go forth and prosper! At all times I shall be fighting for you. He will be there at nine to-night.” At a quarter past that hour Bellamy was asking the door-keeper of the Chorazin Club to tell Mr. Clinton that a Mr. Bellamy wished to see him. Two minutes later the official reappeared and led him downstairs into an ornate and gaudy cellar decorated with violence and indiscretion--the work, he discovered later, of a neglected genius who had died of neglected cirrhosis of the liver. He was led up to a table in the corner, where someone was sitting alone. Bellamy’s first impression of Oscar Clinton remained vividly with him till his death. As he got up to greet him he could see that he was physically gigantic--six foot five at least, with a massive torso--the build of a champion wrestler. Topping it was a huge, square, domed head. He had a white yet mottled face, thick, tense lips, the lower one protruding fantastically. His hair was clipped close, save for one twisted and oiled lock which curved down to meet his eyebrows. But what impressed Bellamy most was a pair of the hardest, most penetrating and merciless eyes--one of which seemed soaking wet and dripping slowly. Bellamy “braced his belt about him”--he was in the presence of a power.