entered an automatic lift,
which carried him to the third floor. Here, the landing and the corridor
were illuminated by one small electric lamp sufficient to light him to
the heavy walnut doors which led to the office of the Spillsbury
Syndicate. He opened the door with a latchkey and found himself in a big
lobby, carpeted and furnished in good style.

A man was sitting before a radiator, a paper pad upon his knees, and he
was making notes with a pencil. He looked up startled as the other
entered and nodded. It was Olaf Hanson, the colonel's clerk--and Olaf,
with his flat expressionless face, and his stiff upstanding hair, always
reminded Pinto of a Struwwelpeter which had been cropped.

"Hullo, Hanson, is the colonel inside?"

The man nodded.

"They're waiting for you," he said.

His voice was hard and unsympathetic, and his thin lips snapped out
every syllable.

"Aren't you coming in?" asked Pinto in surprise, his hand upon the door.

The man called Hanson shook his head.

"I've got to go to the colonel's flat," he said, "to get some papers.
Besides, they don't want me."

He smiled quickly and wanly. It was a grimace rather than an expression
of amusement and Pinto eyed him narrowly. He had, however, the good
sense to ask no further questions. Turning the handle of the door, he
walked into the large, ornate apartment.

In the centre of the room was a big table and the chairs at its sides
were, for the most part, filled.

He dropped into a seat on the colonel's right and nodded to the others
at the table. Most of the principals were there--"Swell" Crewe, Jackson,
Cresswell, and at the farther end of the table, Lollie Marsh with her
baby face and her permanent expression of open-mouthed wonder.

"Where's White?" he asked.

The colonel was reading a letter and did not immediately reply.
Presently he took off his pince-nez and put them into his pocket.

"Where's White?" he repeated. "White isn't here. No, White isn't here,"
he repeated significantly.

"What's wrong?" asked Pinto quickly.

The colonel scratched his chin and looked up to the ceiling.

"I'm settling up this Spillsbury business," he said. "White isn't in
it."

"Why not?" asked Pinto.

"He never was in it," said the colonel evasively. "It was not the kind
of business that White would like to be in. I guess he's getting
religious or something, or maybe it's that daughter of his."

The eyelids of Pinto Silva narrowed at the reference to