"One very notable thing, Mr. Harley. I was actually assaulted less than
a week ago within sight of my own house."

"Indeed! Tell me of this." Paul Harley became aware of an awakening
curiosity. Sir Charles Abingdon was not the type of man who is lightly
intimidated.

"I had been to visit a friend in the neighbourhood," Sir Charles
continued, "whom I am at present attending professionally, although I am
actually retired. I was returning across the square, close to midnight,
when, fortunately for myself, I detected the sound of light, pattering
footsteps immediately behind me. The place was quite deserted at that
hour, and although I was so near home, the worst would have happened, I
fear, if my sense of hearing had been less acute. I turned in the very
instant that a man was about to spring upon me from behind. He was
holding in his hand what looked like a large silk handkerchief. This
encounter took place in the shadow of some trees, and beyond the fact
that my assailant was a small man, I could form no impression of his
identity."

"What did you do?"

"I turned and struck out with my stick."

"And then?"

"Then he made no attempt to contest the issue, but simply ran swiftly
off, always keeping in the shadows of the trees."

"Very strange," murmured Harley. "Do you think he had meant to drug
you?"

"Maybe," replied Sir Charles. "The handkerchief was perhaps saturated
with some drug, or he may even have designed to attempt to strangle me."

"And you formed absolutely no impression of the man?"

"None whatever, Mr. Harley. When you see the spot at which the encounter
took place, if you care to do so, you will recognize the difficulties.
It is perfectly dark there after nightfall."

"H'm," mused Harley. "A very alarming occurrence, Sir Charles. It must
have shaken you very badly. But we must not overlook the possibility
that this may have been an ordinary footpad."

"His methods were scarcely those of a footpad," murmured Sir Charles.

"I quite agree," said Harley. "They were rather Oriental, if I may say
so."

Sir Charles Abingdon started. "Oriental!" he whispered. "Yes, you are
right."

"Does this suggest a train of thought?" prompted Harley.

Sir Charles Abingdon cleared his throat nervously. "It does, Mr.
Harley," he admitted, "but a very confusing train of thought. It leads
me to a point which I must mention, but which concerns a very well-known
man. Before I proceed I should like to make it clea