ctions which he gave to the
driver, but unless his habits had changed considerably the chances
were that he was off to lunch at his club. Anyhow I felt pretty
certain that I could pick up his trail again later on at the office if
I wanted to. For the moment I had other plans; it was my intention
to follow George's example and pay a short call upon "Mademoiselle
Vivien."

I walked back, and throwing away the end of my cigar, entered the
doorway again and started off up the stairs. I imagined that by going
as an ordinary client I should find no difficulty in getting admitted,
but if I did I was fully prepared to bribe or bluff, or adopt any
method that might be necessary to achieve my purpose. I would not
leave until I had at least seen the gifted object of George's midday
rambles.

I reached the second landing, where I was faced by a green door with a
quaintly carved electric bell in the shape of an Egyptian girl's head,
a red stone in the centre of the forehead forming what appeared to be
the button. Anyhow I pressed it and waited, and a moment later the
door swung silently open. A small but very alert page-boy who looked
like an Italian was standing on the mat.

"Is Mademoiselle at home?" I inquired.

He looked me up and down sharply. "Have you an appointment, sir?"

"No," I said, "but will you be good enough to ask whether I can
see her? My name is Mr. James Nicholson. I wish to consult her
professionally."

"If you will step in here, sir, I will inquire. Mademoiselle very
seldom sees any one without an appointment."

He opened a door on the right and ushered me into a small
sitting-room, the chief furniture of which appeared to be a couch, one
or two magnificent bowls of growing tulips and hyacinths, and an oak
shelf which ran the whole length of the room and was crowded with
books.

While the boy was away I amused myself by examining the titles. There
were a number of volumes on palmistry and on various branches of
occultism, interspersed with several books of poetry and such unlikely
works as _My Prison Life_, by Jabez Balfour, and Melville Lee's
well-known _History of Police_.

It gave me rather an uncanny feeling for the moment to be confronted
by the two latter, and I was just wondering whether a Bond Street
palmist's clientele made such works of reference necessary, when the
door opened and the page-boy reappeared.

"If you will kindly come this way, sir, Mademoiselle will see you," he
announced.