me hurrying into
the library. His expression was so peculiar that Harley started up
immediately, perceiving that something unusual had happened.

"My dear Mr. Harley," began Sir Charles, "in the first place pray accept
my apologies--"

"None are necessary," Harley interrupted. "Your excellent housekeeper
has entertained me vastly."

"Good, good," muttered Sir Charles. "I am obliged to Mrs. Howett," and
it was plainly to be seen that his thoughts were elsewhere. "But I have
to relate a most inexplicable occurrence--inexplicable unless by some
divine accident the plan has been prevented from maturing."

"What do you mean, Sir Charles?"

"I was called ten minutes ago by someone purporting to be the servant
of Mr. Chester Wilson, that friend and neighbour whom I have been
attending."

"So your butler informed me."

"My dear sir," cried Sir Charles, and the expression in his eyes grew
almost wild, "no one in Wilson's house knew anything about the matter!"

"What! It was a ruse?"

"Palpably a ruse to get me away from home."

Harley dropped his cigarette into the ash tray beside the match, where,
smouldering, it sent up a gray spiral into the air of the library.
Whether because of his words or because of the presence of the man
himself, the warning, intuitive finger had again touched Paul Harley.
"You saw or heard nothing on your way across the square to suggest that
any one having designs on your safety was watching you?"

"Nothing. I searched the shadows most particularly on my return journey,
of course. For the thing cannot have been purposeless."

"I quite agree with you," said Paul Harley, quietly.

Between the promptings of that uncanny sixth sense of his and the
working of the trained deductive reasoning powers, he was momentarily
at a loss. Some fact, some episode, a memory, was clamouring for
recognition, while the intuitive, subconscious voice whispered: "This
man is in danger; protect him." What was the meaning of it all? He felt
that a clue lay somewhere outside the reach of his intelligence, and a
sort of anger possessed him because of his impotence to grasp it.

Sir Charles was staring at him in that curiously pathetic way which
he had observed at their earlier interview in Chancery Lane. "In
any event," said his host, "let us dine: for already I have kept you
waiting."

Harley merely bowed, and walking out of the library, entered the cosy
dining room. A dreadful premonition had claimed him as