reasing public who were
fascinated by the wholesome and thrilling stories he wrote, and who
held on breathlessly to the skein of mystery until they came to the
denouement he had planned.

But no thought of books, or plots, or stories filled his troubled mind
as he strode along the deserted road to Little Beston. He had had two
interviews in London, one of which under ordinary circumstances would
have filled him with joy: He had seen T. X. and "T. X." was T. X.
Meredith, who would one day be Chief of the Criminal Investigation
Department and was now an Assistant Commissioner of Police, engaged in
the more delicate work of that department.

In his erratic, tempestuous way, T. X. had suggested the greatest idea
for a plot that any author could desire. But it was not of T. X. that
John Lexman thought as he breasted the hill, on the slope of which was
the tiny habitation known by the somewhat magnificent title of Beston
Priory.

It was the interview he had had with the Greek on the previous day which
filled his mind, and he frowned as he recalled it. He opened the little
wicket gate and went through the plantation to the house, doing his
best to shake off the recollection of the remarkable and unedifying
discussion he had had with the moneylender.

Beston Priory was little more than a cottage, though one of its walls
was an indubitable relic of that establishment which a pious Howard had
erected in the thirteenth century. A small and unpretentious building,
built in the Elizabethan style with quaint gables and high chimneys,
its latticed windows and sunken gardens, its rosary and its tiny meadow,
gave it a certain manorial completeness which was a source of great
pride to its owner.

He passed under the thatched porch, and stood for a moment in the broad
hallway as he stripped his drenching mackintosh.

The hall was in darkness. Grace would probably be changing for dinner,
and he decided that in his present mood he would not disturb her. He
passed through the long passage which led to the big study at the back
of the house. A fire burnt redly in the old-fashioned grate and the snug
comfort of the room brought a sense of ease and relief. He changed his
shoes, and lit the table lamp.

The room was obviously a man's den. The leather-covered chairs, the big
and well-filled bookcase which covered one wall of the room, the
huge, solid-oak writing-desk, covered with books and half-finished
manuscripts, spoke unmistakably o