th its long shadowy reaches between the islands
of light formed by the street lamps. From patch to patch he passed, and
each successive lamp that looked down upon him found him more furtive,
more bent in his carriage.

Not a shop nor a house exhibited any light. Sleeping Globe Road, East,
served to extinguish the last poor spark of courage within Soames'
bosom. He came to the extreme end of the road without having perceived
a beckoning hand, without having detected a sound to reveal that his
advent was observed. In the shadow of a wall he stopped, resting his
grip upon the pavement and looking back upon his tracks.

No living thing moved from end to end of Globe Road.

Shivering slightly, Soames picked up the bag and began to walk back.
Less than half-way along, an icy chill entered into his veins, and his
nerves quivered like piano wires, for a soft crying of his name came,
eerie, through the silence, and terrified the hearer.

"SOAMES!... SOAMES!"...

Soames stopped dead, breathing very rapidly, and looking about him right
and left. He could hear the muted pulse of sleeping London. Then, in the
dark doorway of the house before which he stood, he perceived, dimly, a
motionless figure. His first sensation was not of relief, but of fear.
The figure raised a beckoning hand. Soames, conscious that his course
was set and that he must navigate it accordingly, opened the iron gate,
passed up the path and entered the house to which he thus had been
summoned....

He found himself surrounded by absolute darkness, and the door was
closed behind him.

"Straight ahead, Soames!" said the familiar voice of Gianapolis out of
the darkness.

Soames, with a gasp of relief, staggered on. A hand rested upon his
shoulder, and he was guided into a room on the right of the passage.
Then an electric lamp was lighted, and he found himself confronting the
Greek.

But Gianapolis was no longer radiant; all the innate evil of the man
shone out through the smirking mask.

"Sit down, Soames!" he directed.

Soames, placing his bag upon the floor, seated himself in a cane
armchair. The room was cheaply furnished as an office, with a roll-top
desk, a revolving chair, and a filing cabinet. On a side-table stood
a typewriter, and about the room were several other chairs, whilst the
floor was covered with cheap linoleum. Gianapolis sat in the revolving
chair, staring at the lowered blinds of the window, and brushing up the
points of his blac