looking out a quarter of an hour earlier, he had
detected, or thought he had detected, a lurking form under the trees
some hundred yards beyond his gate.

His visit to the Astoria, the morning before, had been in response to an
invitation from Severac Bablon, but divining that he was closely
watched, he had sent the message to Gale--an American friend whom he
knew to have just arrived--which had fallen into the hands of Mr. Aloys.
X. Alden. Sheard had actually had an appointment with Gale, and had rung
him up later in the morning--gaining confirmation of his suspicions, in
the form of Gale's story of the empty envelope.

Then, at night, his American friend had been followed to the house and
followed back again to the hotel. This had been merely humorous; but
to-night there existed more real cause of apprehension. Sheard had
received a plain correspondence card, bearing the following, in a small
neat hand:

"Do not bolt your front door. Expect me at about one o'clock A.M."

For a time it had been exciting, absorbingly interesting, to know
himself behind the scenes of this mystery play which had all the world
for an audience. But it was a situation of quite unique danger. Severac
Bablon was opposed to tremendous interests. Apart from the activity of
the ordinary authorities, there were those in the field against this man
of mystery to whom money, in furtherance of their end, was no object.

Sheard realised, at times--and these were uncomfortable times--that his
strange acquaintance with Severac Bablon quite conceivably might end in
Brixton Prison.

Yet there are some respects wherein the copy-hunter and the scalp-hunter
tally. The thrill of the New Journalism has enlisted in the ranks of the
Fleet Street army some who, in a former age, must have sought their
fortune with the less mighty weapon. A love of adventure was some part
of the complement of Sheard; and now, suspecting that a Pinkerton man
lurked in the neighbourhood, and uncertain if his wife slept, he awaited
his visitor, with nerves tensely strung. But there was an exquisite
delight tingling through his veins--an appreciation of his peril wholly
pleasurable.

Faintly, he heard a key grate in the lock of the front door. The door
was opened, and gently closed.

Sheard stood up.

Into the study walked Severac Bablon.

He was perfectly attired, as usual; wore evening-dress, and a heavy
fur-lined coat. His silk hat he held in his hand. As he stood wi