ravel-worn and dirty, with a soiled collar and many days' growth of
beard, said:

"Don't have anybody here--not even your best friend, Dickson. You'd
admit no stranger here if you knew the truth," he added, with a meaning
look. "Fortunately, perhaps you don't."

Then, after he had gulped down the cognac I had brought at his order, he
went on:

"Now, listen. In a little more than a week it will be New Year's day. On
that day there will arrive for me a card of greeting. You will open all
my letters on that morning, and find it. Either it will be perfectly
plain and bear the words 'A Happy New Year' in frosted letters, or else
it will be a water-colour snow scene--a house, bare trees, moonlight,
you know the kind of thing--with the words 'The Compliments of the
Season.' Upon either will be written in violet ink, in a woman's hand,
the words in English, 'To dear Heinrich.' You understand, eh?"

"Perfectly, sir."

"Good," he said. "Now, I gave you two telegrams before I left. If the
card is a plain one, burn it and despatch the first telegram; if
coloured, then send the second message. Do you follow?"

I replied in the affirmative, when, to my surprise he rose, and instead
of entering his bedroom to wash, he simply swallowed a second glass of
brandy, sighed, and departed, saying:

"Remember, you know nothing--nothing whatever. If there should be any
inquiries about me, keep your mouth closed."

Twice my friend Stieber called in the days that followed, but I
flattered myself that from me he learnt nothing.

On the morning of New Year's day five letters were pushed through the
box. Eagerly I tore them open. The last, bearing a Dutch stamp, with the
postmark of Utrecht, contained the expected card, with the inscription
"To dear Heinrich," a small hand-painted scene upon celluloid, with
forget-me-nots woven round the words "With the Compliments of the
Season."

Half an hour later, having burned the card according to my instructions,
I despatched the mysterious message to Manchester.

That evening, about ten o'clock, Stieber called for me to go for a
stroll and drink a New Year health. But as we turned from Clarges Street
into Piccadilly I could have sworn that a man we passed in the darkness
was old Van Nierop. I made no remark, however, because I did not wish to
draw my companion's attention to the shuffling old fellow.

Had the telegram, I wondered, brought him to London?

Ten minutes later, in the Cafe Monico,