“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 standing on the step, the maid (in whose hand I perceived a greasy fork) shuffled along the passage and began to mount the stairs. An unmistakable odour of frying sausages now reached my nostrils. Harley glanced at me quizzically, but said nothing until the Cinderella came stumbling downstairs again. Without returning to where we stood:
 
“Go up,” she directed. “Second floor, front. Shut the door, one of yer.”
 
She disappeared into gloomy depths below as Harley and I, closing the door behind us, proceeded to avail ourselves of the invitation. There was very little light on the staircase, but we managed to find our way to a poorly furnished bed-sitting-room where a small table was spread for a meal. Beside the table, in a chintz-covered arm-chair, a thick-set young man was seated smoking a cigarette and having a copy of the Daily Telegraph upon his knees.
 
He was a very typical lower middle-class, nothing-in-particular young man, but there was a certain truculence indicated by his square jaw, and that sort of self-possession which sometimes accompanies physical strength was evidenced in his manner as, tossing the paper aside, he stood up.
 
“Good evening, Mr. Bampton,” said Harley genially. “I take it”—pointing to the newspaper—“that you are looking for a new job?”
 
Bampton stared, a suspicion of anger in his eyes, then, meeting the amused glance of my friend, he broke into a smile very pleasing and humorous. He was a fresh-coloured young fellow with hair inclined to redness, and smiling he looked very boyish indeed.
 
“I have no idea who you are,” he said, speaking with a faint north-country accent, “but you evidently know who I am and what has happened to me.”
 
“Got the boot?” asked Harley confidentially.
 
Bampton, tossing the end of his cigarette into the grate, nodded grimly.
 
“You haven't told me your name,” he said, “but I think I can tell you your business.” He ceased smiling. “Now look here, I don't want any more publicity. If you think you are going to make a funny newspaper story out of me change your mind as quick as you like. I'll never get another job in London as it is. If you drag me any further into the limelight I'll never get another job in England.”
 
“My dear fellow,” replied Harley soothingly, at the same time extending his cigarette-case, “you misapprehend the object of my call. I am not a reporter.”
 
“What!” said Bampton, pausing in the act of taking a cigarette, “then what the devil are you?”
 
“My name is Paul Harley, and I am a criminal investigator.”
 
He spoke the words deliberately, having his eyes fixed upon the other's face; but although Bampton was palpably startled there was no trace of fear in his straightforward glance. He took a cigarette from the case, and:
 
“Thanks, Mr. Harley,” he said. “I cannot imagine what business has brought you here.”
 
“I have come to ask you two questions,” was the reply. “Number one: Who paid you to smash Major Ragstaff's white hat? Number two: How much did he pay you?”
 
To these questions I listened in amazement, and my amazement was evidently shared by Bampton. He had been in the act of lighting his cigarette, but he allowed the match to burn down nearly to his fingers and then dropped it with a muttered exclamation in the fire. Finally:
 
“I don't know how you found out,” he said, “but you evidently know the truth. Provided you assure me that you are not out to make a silly-season newspaper story, I'll tell you all I know.”
 
Harley laid his card on the table, and:
 
“Unless the ends of justice demand it,” he said, “I give you my word that anything you care to say will go no further. You may speak freel............