he curb and
a sprucely attired Hindu stepped out. One who had been in the apartments
of Ormuz Khan must have recognized his excellency's private secretary.
Turning to the chauffeur, a half-caste of some kind, and ignoring the
presence of the prophet who had generously opened the door, "You
will return at eight o'clock," he said, speaking perfect and cultured
English, "to take his excellency to High Claybury. Make a note, now, as
I shall be very busy, reminding me to call at Lower Claybury station for
a parcel which will be awaiting me there."

"Yes, sir," replied the chauffeur, and he touched his cap as the Hindu
walked into the hotel.

The salesman reclosed the door of the car, and spat reflectively upon
the pavement.

Limping wearily, he worked his way along in the direction of Chancery
Lane. But, before reaching Chancery Lane, he plunged into a maze of
courts with which he was evidently well acquainted. His bookselling
enterprise presently terminated, as it had commenced, at The Chancery
Agency.

Once more safe in his dressing room, the pedler rapidly transformed
himself into Paul Harley, and Paul Harley, laying his watch upon the
table before him, lighted his pipe and indulged in half an hour's close
thinking.

His again electing to focus his attention upon Ormuz Khan was this time
beyond reproach. It was the course which logic dictated. Until he had
attempted the task earlier in the day, he could not have supposed it so
difficult to trace the country address of a well-known figure like that
of the Persian.

This address he had determined to learn, and, having learned it, was
also determined to inspect the premises. But for such a stroke of good
luck as that which had befallen him at the Savoy, he could scarcely have
hoped. His course now lay clearly before him. And presently, laying his
pipe aside, he took up a telephone which stood upon the dressing table
and rang up a garage with which he had an account.

"Hello, is that you, Mason?" he said. "Have the racer to meet me at
seven o'clock, half-way along Pall Mall."

Never for a moment did he relax his vigilance. Observing every
precaution when he left The Chancery Agency, he spent the intervening
time at one of his clubs, from which, having made an early dinner, he
set off for Pall Mall at ten minutes to seven. A rakish-looking gray car
resembling a giant torpedo was approaching slowly from the direction of
Buckingham Palace. The driver pulled up as Paul