He divested himself of his overcoat in the tiny entrance-hall, passed
into a small room, with the great open hearth, where in days long ago the
bacon was smoked, and along a passage into the long, old-world
dining-room, with its low ceiling with great dark beams, its
solemn-ticking, brass-faced grandfather clock, and its profusion of old
blue china.

There he gave some orders to Mrs. Deacon, obtained a cigarette, and
passed back along the passage to a small, cosy, panelled room at the end
of the house--the room wherein he wrote those mystery stories which held
the world enthralled.

It was a pretty, restful place, with a moss-green carpet, green-covered
chairs, several cases filled to overflowing with books, and a great
writing-table set in the window. On the mantelshelf were many autographed
portraits of Continental celebrities, while on the walls were one or two
little gems of antique art which he had picked up on his erratic
wanderings. Over the writing-table was a barometer and a storm-glass,
while to the left a cosy corner extended round to the fireplace.

He lit his cigarette, then walking across to a small square oaken door
let into the wall beside the fireplace, he opened it with a key. This had
been an oven before the transformation of three cottages into a week-end
residence, and on opening it there was displayed the dark-green door of a
safe. This he quickly opened with another key, and after slight search
took out a small ledger covered with dark-red leather.

Then glancing at some numerals upon a piece of paper he took from his
vest pocket, he turned them up in the index, and with another volume open
upon his blotting-pad, he settled himself to read the record written
there in a small, round hand. The numbers were those upon the back of the
old _carte-de-visite_ which had interested him so keenly, and the
statement he was reading was, from the expression upon his countenance,
an amazing one.

From time to time he scribbled memoranda upon the scrap of paper, now and
then pausing as though to recall the past. Then, when he had finished, he
laughed softly to himself, and, closing the book, replaced it in the safe
and shut the oaken door. By the inspection of that secret entry he had
learnt much regarding that man who posed as a doctor in Pimlico.

He sat back in his writing-chair and puffed thoughtfully at his
cigarette. Then he turned his attention to a pile of letters addressed to
him as "Mr. Maltwo