d. It was precisely what he wanted. The three people whom he had
left in Portman Square in all probability knew no other address than
this at which to seek for Burchill when he was wanted; they would seek
him there eventually and get no news. Luckily for himself, Barthorpe
knew where he was to be found, and he went straight off up Edgware Road
to find him.

Calengrove Mansions proved to be a new block of flats in the dip of
Maida Vale; 35c was a top flat in a wing which up to that stage of its
existence did not appear to be much sought after by would-be tenants. It
was some time before Barthorpe succeeded in getting an answer to his
ring and knock; when at last the door was opened Burchill himself looked
out upon him, yawning, and in a dressing-gown. And narrowly and
searchingly as Barthorpe glanced at Burchill he could not see a trace of
unusual surprise or embarrassment in his face. He looked just as any man
might look who receives an unexpected caller.

"Oh!" he said. "Mr. Barthorpe Herapath! Come in--do. I'm a bit late--a
good bit late, in fact. You see, I'm doing dramatic criticism now, and
there was an important _premiere_ last night at the Hyperion, and I had
to do a full column, and so--but that doesn't interest you. Come in,
pray."

He led the way into a small sitting-room, drew forward an easy-chair,
and reaching down a box of cigarettes from the mantelpiece offered its
contents to his visitor. Barthorpe, secretly wondering if all this
unconcerned behaviour was natural or merely a bit of acting, took a
cigarette and dropped into the chair.

"I don't suppose you thought of seeing me when you opened your door,
Burchill?" he remarked good-humouredly, as he took the match which his
host had struck for him. "Last man in the world you thought of seeing,
eh?"

Burchill calmly lighted a cigarette for himself before he answered.

"Well," he said at last, "I don't know--you never know who's going to
turn up. But to be candid, I didn't expect to see you, and I don't know
why you've come."

Barthorpe slowly produced the letter-case from his pocket, took
Burchill's letter from it, and held it before him.

"That's what brought me here," he said significantly. "That! Of course,
you recognize it."

Burchill glanced at the letter without turning a hair. If he was merely
acting, thought Barthorpe, he was doing it splendidly, and instead of
writing dramatic criticism he ought to put on the sock and buskins
himself. B