of the Museum. I followed him
through into Kingsway and thence to Fleet Street. He sauntered
easily along, a nonchalant gray figure. I had begun to think that
he was bound for his hotel and that I was wasting my time when he
turned sharply into quiet Salisbury Square; it was almost deserted.

My heart leapt into my mouth with a presentiment of what was coming
as I saw an elegant and beautifully dressed woman sauntering along
in front of us on the far side.

Was it that I detected something familiar in her carriage, in the
poise of her head--something that reminded me of former
unforgettable encounters; encounters which without exception had
presaged attempts upon the slipper of the Prophet? Or was it that
I recollected how Dexter had booked two passages to America? I
cannot say, but I felt my heart leap; I knew beyond any possibility
of doubt that this meeting in Salisbury Square marked the opening
of a new chapter in the history of the slipper.

Dexter slipped his arm within that of the girl in front of him and
they paced slowly forward in earnest conversation. I suppose my
action was very amateurish and very poor detective work; but
regardless of discovery I crossed the road and passed close by
the pair.

I am certain that Dexter was speaking as I came up, but, well out
of earshot, his voice was suddenly arrested. His companion turned
and looked at me.

I was prepared for it, yet was thrilled electrically by the
flashing glance of the violet eyes--for it was she--the beautiful
harbinger of calamities!

My brain was in a whirl; complication piled itself upon complication;
yet in the heart of all this bewilderment I thought I could detect
the key of the labyrinth, but at the time my ideas were in disorder,
for the violet eyes were not lowered but fixed upon me in cold scorn.

I knew myself helpless, and bending my head with conscious
embarrassment I passed on hurriedly.

I had work to do in plenty, but I could not apply my mind to it;
and now, although the obvious and sensible thing was to go about
my business, I wandered on aimlessly, my brain employed with a
hundred idle conjectures and the query, "Where have I seen The
Stetson Man?" seeming to beat, like a tattoo, in my brain. There
was something magnetic about the accursed slipper, for without
knowing by what route I had arrived there, I found myself in Great
Orchard Street and close under the walls of the British Antiquarian
Museum. Then I was