trie would leave me entirely to my own sweet devices
while I was in London--not, at all events, until he had satisfied
himself that I had been speaking the truth about my intentions.

Still, even if my suspicions were right, there seemed no reason for
being seriously worried. The gentleman on the pavement might have
overheard me give the address to the driver, but that after all was
exactly what I should have liked him to hear. Dinner at Gaultier's
sounded a most natural preliminary to an evening's dissipation, and
unless I was being actually followed to the restaurant I had nothing
to fear. It was quite possible that my friend with the scar was only
anxious to discover whether I was really setting out for the West End.

All the same I determined to be devilish careful about my future
movements. If McMurtrie wanted a report he should have it, but I would
take particular pains to see that it contained nothing which would in
any way disturb his belief in me.

We pulled up at Gaultier's, and I saw with a sort of sentimental
pleasure that, outside at all events, it had not altered in the least
during my three years' exile. There was the same discreet-looking
little window, the same big electric light over the door, and, unless
I was much mistaken, the same uniformed porter standing on the mat.

When I entered I found M. Gaultier himself, as fat and bland as ever,
presiding over the scene. He came forward, bowing low after his usual
custom, and motioned me towards a vacant table in the corner. I felt
an absurd inclination to slap him on the back and ask him how he had
been getting on in my absence.

It seemed highly improbable that he would remember my voice, but, as
I had no intention of running any unnecessary risks, I was careful to
alter it a little when I spoke to him.

"Good-evening," I began; "are you M. Gaultier?"

He bowed and beamed.

"Well, M. Gaultier," I said, "I want a good dinner--a quite
exceptionally good dinner. I have been waiting for it for some time."

He regarded me keenly, with a mixture of sympathy and professional
interest.

"Monsieur is hungry?" he inquired.

"Monsieur," I replied, "is both hungry and greedy. You have full scope
for your art."

He straightened himself, and for an inspired moment gazed at the
ceiling. Then he slapped his forehead.

"Monsieur," he said, "with your permission I go to consult the chef."

"Go," I replied. "And Heaven attend your council."

He hurried o