te
openly, I have even abjured to some extent my incognito. Yet I have not
received even a warning letter. I am left absolutely undisturbed."

Felix looked at him thoughtfully.

"And what do you deduce from this?" he asked.

"I do not like it," Mr. Sabin answered drily.

"After all," Felix remarked, "it is to some extent natural. The very
openness of your life here makes interference with you more difficult,
and as to warning letters--well, you have proved the uselessness of
them."

"Perhaps," Mr. Sabin answered. "At the same time, if I were a
superstitious person I should consider this inaction ominous."

"You must take account also," Felix said, "of the difference in the
countries. In England the police system, if not the most infallible
in the world, is certainly the most incorruptible. There was never a
country in which security of person and life was so keenly watched over
as here. In America, up to a certain point, a man is expected to look
after himself. The same feeling does not prevail here."

Mr. Sabin assented.

"And therefore," he remarked, "for the purposes of your friends I should
consider this a difficult and unpromising country in which to work."

"Other countries, other methods!" Felix remarked laconically.

"Exactly! It is the new methods which I am anxious to discover," Mr.
Sabin said. "No glimmering of them as yet has been vouchsafed to me. Yet
I believe that I am right in assuming that for the moment London is the
headquarters of your friends, and that Lucille is here?"

"If that is meant for a question," Felix said, "I may not answer it."

Mr. Sabin nodded.

"Yet," he suggested, "your visit has an object. To discover my plans
perhaps! You are welcome to them."

Felix thoughtfully knocked the ashes off his cigarette.

"My visit had an object," he admitted, "but it was a personal one. I am
not actually concerned in the doings of those whom you have called my
friends."

"We are alone," Mr. Sabin reminded him. "My time is yours."

"You and I," Felix said, "have had our periods of bitter enmity. With
your marriage to Lucille these, so far as I am concerned, ended for
ever. I will even admit that in my younger days I was prejudiced against
you. That has passed away. You have been all your days a bold and
unscrupulous schemer, but ends have at any rate been worthy ones. To-day
I am able to regard you with feelings of friendliness. You are the
husband of my dear sister, and for years I