ad. He folded the letter
and put it in his pocket.

"I will think about it," he said gruffly.

"Another privilege I would crave from you in addition to the purely
nominal privilege of receiving more salary," said Poltavo.

"What is it?"

The Pole spread out his hands in a gesture of self-depreciation.

"It is weak of me, I admit," he said, "but I am anxious--foolishly
anxious--to return to the society of well-clothed men and pretty women.
I pine for social life. It is a weakness of mine," he added
apologetically. "I want to meet stockbrokers, financiers, politicians
and other _chevaliers d'industrie_ on equal terms, to wear the _grande
habit_, to listen to soft music, to drink good wine."

"Well?" asked the other suspiciously. "What am I to do?"

"Introduce me to society," said Poltavo sweetly--"most particularly do I
desire to meet that merchant prince of whose operations I read in the
newspapers, Mr. how-do-you-call-him?--Farrington."

The veiled man sat in silence for a good minute, and then he rose,
opened the cupboard and put in his hand. There was a click and the
cupboard with its interior swung back, revealing another room which was
in point of fact an adjoining suite of offices, also rented by Mr.
Brown. He stood silently in the opening, his chin on his breast, his
hands behind him, then:

"You are very clever, Poltavo," he said, and passed through and the
cupboard swung back in its place.

CHAPTER II

"Assassin!"

This was the cry which rang out in the stillness of the night, and
aroused the interest of one inhabitant of Brakely Square who was awake.
Mr. Gregory Farrington, a victim of insomnia, heard the sound, and put
down the book he was reading, with a frown. He rose from his easy chair,
pulled his velvet dressing gown lightly round his rotund form and
shuffled to the window. His blinds were lowered, but these were of the
ordinary type, and he stuck two fingers between two of the laths.

There was a moist film on the window through which the street lamps
showed blurred and indistinct, and he rubbed the pane clear with the
tips of his fingers (he described every action to T. B. Smith
afterwards).

Two men stood outside the house. They occupied the centre of the
deserted pavement, and they were talking excitedly. Through the closed
window Mr. Farrington could hear the staccato rattle of their voices,
and by the gesticulations, familiar to one who had lived for many years
in a Latin