s," smiled the Inspector. "Or if there is a murder
committed you will be an accessory before the fact."

I intimated my disregard of the contingency. What did it matter? Nothing
in the world mattered save the recovery of the light and meaning of my
existence. My friend's name? Sebastian Pasquale, He lived near by in the
St. John's Wood Road.

"The best thing you can do, Sir Marcus," said the Inspector, "is to get
hold of Mr. Pasquale and take him with you to Scotland Yard. Perhaps
two heads will be better than one. In the meanwhile we shall
communicate with headquarters and make the necessary inquiries in the
neighbourhood."

I drove to St. John's Wood Road, and learned to my dismay that Pasquale
had given up his rooms there a week ago. All his letters were addressed
to his club in Piccadilly. I drove thither. How has mankind contented
itself for these thousands of years with a horse as its chief means of
locomotion? Oh, the exasperation I suffered behind that magnified snail!
I dashed into the club. Mr. Pasquale had not been there all day. No, he
was not staying there. It was against the rules to give members' private
addresses.

"But it's a matter of life and death!" I cried.

"To tell you the truth, sir," said the hall porter, "Mr. Pasquale's only
permanent address is his banker's, and we really don't know where he is
staying at present."

I wrote a hurried line:

"Hamdi has abducted Carlotta. I am half crazed. As you love me give me
your help. Oh, God! man, why aren't you here?"

I left it with the porter, and crawled to Scotland Yard. The cabman at
my invectives against his sauntering beast waxed indignant; it was a
three-quarter blood mare and one of the fastest trotters in London.

"She passes everything," said he.

"It is because everything is standing still or going backward or turned
upside down," said I.

No doubt he thought me mad. Mad as a dingo dog. The thought of the
words, the summer and the sun sent a spasm of hunger through my heart.
Then I murmured to myself: "'Save my soul from hell and my darling from
the power of the dog.' Which dog? Not the dingo dog." I verily believe
my brain worked wrong to-day.

Great Scotland Yard at last. I went through passages. I found myself in
a nondescript room where a courteous official seated at a desk held me
on the rack for half an hour. I had to describe Carlotta: not in the
imagery wherein only one could create an impression of her sweetness,
but i