he butler. "Good morning, sir."

"Good morning, Benson. I have one or two questions to ask you, and there
is something I want you to do for me. Miss Abingdon is out, I presume?"

"Yes, sir," replied Benson, sadly. "At the funeral, sir."

"Is Mrs. Howett in?"

"She is, sir."

"I shall be around in about a quarter of an hour, Benson. In the
meantime, will you be good enough to lay the dining table exactly as it
was laid on the night of Sir Charles's death?"

Benson could be heard nervously clearing his throat, then: "Perhaps,
sir," he said, diffidently, "I didn't quite understand you. Lay the
table, sir, for dinner?"

"For dinner--exactly. I want everything to be there that was present on
the night of the tragedy; everything. Naturally you will have to place
different flowers in the vases, but I want to see the same vases. From
the soup tureen to the serviette rings, Benson, I wish you to duplicate
the dinner table as I remember it, paying particular attention to the
exact position of each article. Mrs. Howett will doubtless be able to
assist you in this."

"Very good, sir," said Benson--but his voice betokened bewilderment. "I
will see Mrs. Howett at once, sir."

"Right. Good-bye."

"Good-bye, sir."

Replacing the receiver, Harley took a bunch of keys from his pocket and,
crossing the office, locked the door. He then retired to his private
apartments and also locked the communicating door. A few moments later
he came out of "The Chancery Agency" and proceeded in the direction
of the Strand. Under cover of the wire-gauze curtain which veiled
the window he had carefully inspected the scene before emerging.
But although his eyes were keen and his sixth sense whispered
"Danger--danger!" he had failed to detect anything amiss.

This constant conflict between intuition and tangible evidence was
beginning to tell upon him. Either his sixth sense had begun to
play tricks or he was the object of the most perfectly organized and
efficient system of surveillance with which he had ever come in contact.
Once, in the past, he had found himself pitted against the secret police
of Moscow, and hitherto he had counted their methods incomparable.
Unless he was the victim of an unpleasant hallucination, those Russian
spies had their peers in London.

As he alighted from a cab before the house of the late Sir Charles,
Benson opened the door. "We have just finished, sir," he said, as Harley
ran up the steps. "But Mrs. Howett