d at me in rather an odd way, and then:

"There will be no bill, Major Ragstaff," he said; "but if I can see any
possible line of inquiry I will pursue it and report the result to you."

II

A CURIOUS OUTRAGE

"What do you make of it, Harley?" I asked. Paul Harley returned a work
of reference to its shelf and stood staring absently across the study.

"Our late visitor's history does not help us much," he replied. "A
somewhat distinguished army career, and so forth, and his only daughter,
Sybil Margaret, married the fifth Marquis of Ireton. She is, therefore,
the noted society beauty, the Marchioness of Ireton. Does this suggest
anything to your mind?"

"Nothing whatever," I said blankly.

"Nor to mine," murmured Harley.

The telephone bell rang.

"Hallo!" called Harley. "Yes. That you, Wessex? Have you got the
address? Good. No, I shall remember it. Many thanks. Good-bye."

He turned to me.

"I suggest, Knox," he said, "that we make our call and then proceed to
dinner as arranged."

Since I was always glad of an opportunity of studying my friend's
methods I immediately agreed, and ere long, leaving the lights of the
two big hotels behind, our cab was gliding down the long slope which
leads to Waterloo Station. Thence through crowded, slummish high-roads
we made our way via Lambeth to that dismal thoroughfare, Westminster
Bridge Road, with its forbidding, often windowless, houses, and its
peculiar air of desolation.

The house for which we were bound was situated at no great distance from
Kensington Park, and telling the cabman to wait, Harley and I walked
up a narrow, paved path, mounted a flight of steps, and rang the bell
beside a somewhat time-worn door, above which was an old-fashioned
fanlight dimly illuminated from within.

A considerable interval elapsed before the door was opened by a
marvellously untidy servant girl who had apparently been interrupted in
the act of black-leading her face. Partly opening the door, she stared
at us agape, pushing back wisps of hair from her eyes and with every
movement daubing more of some mysterious black substance upon her
countenance.

"Is Mr. Bampton in?" asked Harley.

"Yus, just come in. I'm cookin' his supper."

"Tell him that two friends of his have called on rather important
business."

"All right," said the black-faced one. "What name is it?"

"No name. Just say two friends of his."

Treating us to a long, vacant stare and leaving us