“To-night, sir, I am many things. The fact is, the regular liftman has got a couple of hours off--being the recent father of twins.” “Well--Kitcat Club.” The lift seemed to shoot far upwards, and Mr. Bowring thought the lackey had mistaken the floor, but on gaining the corridor he saw across the portals in front of him the remembered gold sign, “Kitcat Club. Members only.” He pushed the door open and went in. III. Instead of the familiar vestibule of his wife’s club, Mr. Bowring discovered a small antechamber, and beyond, through a doorway half-screened by a _portière_, he had glimpses of a rich, rose-lit drawing-room. In the doorway, with one hand raised to the _portière_, stood the youngish man who had forced him to blush in the restaurant. “I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Bowring, stiffly--“is this the Kitcat Club?” The other man advanced to the outer door, his brilliant eyes fixed on Mr. Bowring’s; his arm crept round the cheek of the door and came back bearing the gold sign; then he shut the door and locked it. “No, this isn’t the Kitcat Club at all,” he replied. “It is my flat. Come and sit down. I was expecting you.” “I shall do nothing of the kind,” said Mr. Bowring disdainfully. “But when I tell you that I know you are going to decamp to-night, Mr. Bowring----” The youngish man smiled affably. “Decamp?” The spine of the financier suddenly grew flaccid. “I used the word.” “Who the devil are you?” snapped the financier, forcing his spine to rigidity. “I am the ‘friend’ on the telephone. I specially wanted you at the Devonshire to-night, and I thought that the fear of a robbery at Lowndes Square might make your arrival here more certain. I am he who devised the story of the inebriated cook and favoured you with a telegram signed ‘Marie.’ I am the humorist who pretended in a loud voice to send off telegraphic instructions to sell ‘Solids,’ in order to watch your demeanour under the test. I am the expert who forged your wife’s handwriting in a note from the Kitcat. I am the patron of the cross-eyed menial who gave you the note and who afterwards raised you too high in the lift. I am the artificer of this gold sign, an exact duplicate of the genuine one two floors below, which induced you to visit me. The sign alone cost me nine-and-six; the servant’s livery came to two pounds fifteen. But I never consider expense when, by dint of a generous outlay, I can avoid violence. I hate violence.” He gently waved the sign to and fro. “Then my wife----” Mr. Bowring stammered in a panic rage. “Is probably at Lowndes Square, wondering what on earth has happened to you.” Mr. Bowring took breath, remembered that he was a great man, and steadied himself. “You must be mad,” he remarked quietly. “Open this door at once.” “Perhaps,” the stranger judicially admitted. “Perhaps a sort of madness. But do come and sit down. We have no time to lose.”