actions, but,
whatever the reason, Colwyn never lost sight of the fact that the
incredible, once it happened, became as commonplace as the meals we eat
or the clothes we wear. It seemed to Colwyn that the unexpected happened
too frequently to call forth the astonishment with which it was
invariably greeted by most people. In his experience, Life was almost
too prodigal of its surprises, so much so, indeed, as to be in danger of
reaching the limit of its own resources. But he consoled himself,
whimsically enough, with the belief that such an event was too probable
ever to happen.

It was nearly eleven o'clock at night, and Colwyn, getting up from a
table where he had been busily writing, walked to the window and looked
down on the deserted street beneath. It was a nightly custom of his. He
lived, as he worked, alone, attended only by a taciturn manservant who
had been with him for many years. He accepted with characteristic
philosophy the view that a man who spent his time unveiling shameful
human secrets had no right to share his life with anybody. Even the
articles of furniture of his lonely rooms, if endowed with any sort of
entity, might have worn a furtive air in their consciousness of the
secrets they had heard whispered in their owner's ears by those who had
sought his counsel and assistance in their trouble and despair. There
had been many such secrets poured forth in those lonely rooms, perched
up high above the roar of the London traffic. It was the Confessional of
the incredible.

As Colwyn stood at the window, the electric bell of the front door rang
sharply through the empty building. Looking down into the street, he saw
the figure of a man in the doorway beneath. He glanced at his watch. It
was late for a visitor. He walked to the lift at the end of the passage
and descended. As he did so, the bell in his rooms once more pealed
forth beneath the pressure of an impatient hand.

The visitor, revealed by the light in the hall, was a young man muffled
in a thick overcoat for protection against the sharp autumn wind which
was blowing along the rain-splashed street. He stepped inside the door
as Colwyn opened it, and, glancing at the detective from a pair of dark
eyes just visible beneath the flap of his soft felt hat, said:

"Are you Mr. Colwyn?"

"Yes. What can I do for you?"

"I am afraid it is a very late hour for a visit," said the other,
brushing the rain drops off his coat as he spoke, "but I should