charge. It is a pleasure to provide a dinner which is
appreciated."

The porter outside volunteered to call me a taxi, and while he was
engaged in that operation I had a sharp look up and down the street
to see whether my friend with the scar was hanging about anywhere. I
could discern no sign of him, but all the same, when the taxi came up,
I took the precaution of directing the man in a fairly audible voice
to drive me to the Pavilion, in Piccadilly Circus. It was not until
we were within a few yards of that instructive institution that I
whistled through the tube and told him to take me on to Chelsea.

I knew Tommy was in the same studio, for Joyce had told me so in her
second letter. It was one of a fairly new block of four or five at the
bottom of Beaufort Street, about half a mile along the embankment
from George's house. All the way down I was debating with myself what
excuse I could offer for calling at such a late hour, and finally
I decided that the best thing would be to pretend that I was a
travelling American artist who had seen and admired some of Tommy's
work. Under such circumstances it would be difficult for the latter
not to ask me in for a short chat.

I stopped the cab in the King's Road, and getting out, had another
good look round to see that I was not being followed. Satisfied on
this point, I lighted a second cigar and started off down Beaufort
Street.

The stretch of embankment at the bottom seemed to have altered very
little since I had last seen it. One or two of the older houses had
been done up, but Florence Court, the block of studios in which Tommy
lived, was exactly as I remembered it. The front door was open, after
the usual casual fashion that prevails in Chelsea, and I walked into
the square stone hall, which was lighted by a flickering gas jet.

There was a board on the right, containing the addresses of the
various tenants. Opposite No. 3 I saw the name of Mr. T.G. Morrison,
and with a slight quickening of the pulse I advanced along the
corridor to Tommy's door.

As I reached it I saw that there was a card tied to the knocker. I
knew that this was a favourite trick of Tommy's when he was away, and
with a sharp sense of disappointment I bent down to read what was
written on it. With some difficulty, for the light was damnable, I
made out the following words, roughly scribbled in pencil:

"Out of Town. Please leave any telegrams or urgent letters at No. 4.
T.M."

I dropped t