raggly characters, "If you marry Smythe, he will die."

"Laura," said Angus, putting his big red head into the shop, "you're not
mad."

"It's the writing of that fellow Welkin," said Smythe gruffly. "I
haven't seen him for years, but he's always bothering me. Five times in
the last fortnight he's had threatening letters left at my flat, and I
can't even find out who leaves them, let alone if it is Welkin himself.
The porter of the flats swears that no suspicious characters have been
seen, and here he has pasted up a sort of dado on a public shop window,
while the people in the shop--"

"Quite so," said Angus modestly, "while the people in the shop were
having tea. Well, sir, I can assure you I appreciate your common sense
in dealing so directly with the matter. We can talk about other things
afterwards. The fellow cannot be very far off yet, for I swear there was
no paper there when I went last to the window, ten or fifteen minutes
ago. On the other hand, he's too far off to be chased, as we don't even
know the direction. If you'll take my advice, Mr. Smythe, you'll put
this at once in the hands of some energetic inquiry man, private rather
than public. I know an extremely clever fellow, who has set up in
business five minutes from here in your car. His name's Flambeau, and
though his youth was a bit stormy, he's a strictly honest man now, and
his brains are worth money. He lives in Lucknow Mansions, Hampstead."

"That is odd," said the little man, arching his black eyebrows. "I live,
myself, in Himylaya Mansions, round the corner. Perhaps you might care
to come with me; I can go to my rooms and sort out these queer Welkin
documents, while you run round and get your friend the detective."

"You are very good," said Angus politely. "Well, the sooner we act the
better."

Both men, with a queer kind of impromptu fairness, took the same sort of
formal farewell of the lady, and both jumped into the brisk little
car. As Smythe took the handles and they turned the great corner of the
street, Angus was amused to see a gigantesque poster of "Smythe's
Silent Service," with a picture of a huge headless iron doll, carrying a
saucepan with the legend, "A Cook Who is Never Cross."

"I use them in my own flat," said the little black-bearded man,
laughing, "partly for advertisements, and partly for real convenience.
Honestly, and all above board, those big clockwork dolls of mine do
bring your coals or claret or a timetable quic