asked him who he was and where he came from, but could make nothing of
his replies. He seemed in mortal fear of some "Selinski"--or a name that
sounded like that; and I did discover one point, that by Selinski he
meant Cassavetti. When he found he had given that much away, he was so
scared that I thought he was going to collapse again, as he did on the
staircase.

And yet he had been entrusted with a pass-key to Cassavetti's rooms!

Only two items seemed perfectly clear. That his "gracious lady" was in
danger,--I put that question to him time after time, and his answer
never varied,--and that he had come to warn her, to save her if
possible.

I could not ascertain the nature of the danger. When I asked him he
simply shook his head, and appeared more scared than ever; but I
gathered that he would be able to tell "the gracious lady," and that she
would understand, if he could only have speech with her. But when I
pressed him on this idea of danger he did a curious thing. He picked up
Cassavetti's key, flattened the bit of red stuff on the palm of his
hand, and held it towards me, pointing at it as if to indicate that here
was the clue that he dare not give in words.

I looked at the thing with interest. A tawdry artificial flower, with
five petals, and in a flash I understood that the hieroglyphic on the
portrait represented the same thing,--a red geranium. But what did they
mean, anyhow, and what connection was there between them? I could not
imagine.

Finally I made him understand--or I thought I did--that he must come to
me next day, in the morning; and meanwhile I would try and arrange that
he should meet his "gracious lady."

He grovelled again, and shuffled off, turning at every few steps to make
a genuflection.

I half expected him to go up the stairs to Cassavetti's rooms, but he
did not. He went down. I followed two minutes later, but saw nothing of
him, either on the staircase or the street. He had vanished as suddenly
and mysteriously as he had appeared.

I whistled for a hansom, and, as the cab turned up Whitehall, Big Ben
chimed a quarter to eight.

CHAPTER II

THE SAVAGE CLUB DINNER

Dinner was served by the time I reached the Cecil, and, as I entered the
salon, and made my way towards the table where our seats were, I saw
that my fears were realized. Anne was angry, and would not lightly
forgive me for what she evidently considered an all but unpardonable
breach of good manners.

I