Two years after the events just described, T. X. journeying up toLondon from Bath was attracted by a paragraph in the Morning Post.

　　It told him briefly that Mr. Remington Kara, the influentialleader of the Greek Colony, had been the guest of honor at adinner of the Hellenic Society.

　　T. X. had only seen Kara for a brief space of time following thattragic morning, when he had discovered not only that his bestfriend had escaped from Dartmoor prison and disappeared, as itwere, from the world at a moment when his pardon had been signed,but that that friend's wife had also vanished from the face of theearth.

　　At the same time - it might, as even T. X. admitted, have been theveriest coincidence that Kara had also cleared out of London toreappear at the end of six months. Any question addressed to him,concerning the whereabouts of the two unhappy people, was met witha bland expression of ignorance as to their whereabouts.

　　John Lexman was somewhere in the world, hiding as he believed fromjustice, and with him was his wife. T. X. had no doubt in hismind as to this solution of the puzzle. He had caused to bepublished the story of the pardon and the circumstances underwhich that pardon had been secured, and he had, moreover, arrangedfor an advertisement to be inserted in the principal papers ofevery European country.

　　It was a moot question amongst the departmental lawyers as towhether John Lexman was not guilty of a technical and punishableoffence for prison breaking, but this possibility did not keep T.

　　X. awake at nights. The circumstances of the escape had beencarefully examined. The warder responsible had been dischargedfrom the service, and had almost immediately purchased for himselfa beer house in Falmouth, for a sum which left no doubt in theofficial mind that he had been the recipient of a heavy bribe.

　　Who had been the guiding spirit in that escape - Mrs. Lexman, orKarat?

　　It was impossible to connect Kara with the event. The motor carhad been traced to Exeter, where it had been hired by a"foreign-looking gentleman," but the chauffeur, whoever he was,had made good his escape. An inspection of Kara's hangars atWembley showed that his two monoplanes had not been removed, andT. X. failed entirely to trace the owner of the machine he hadseen flying over Dartmoor on the fatal morning.

　　T. X. was somewhat baffled and a little amused by thedisinclination of the authorities to believe that the escape hadbeen effected by this method at all. All the events of the trialcame back to him, as he watched the landscape spinning past.

　　He set down the newspaper with a little sigh, put his feet on thecushions of the opposite seat and gave himself up to reverie.

　　Presently he returned to his journals and searched them idly forsomething to interest him in the final stretch of journey betweenNewbury and Paddington.

　　Presently he found it in a two column article with the uninspiringtitle, "The Mineral Wealth of Tierra del Fuego." It was writtenbrightly with a style which was at once easy and informative. Ittold of adventures in the marshes behind St. Sebastian Bay andjourneys up the Guarez Celman river, of nights spent in primevalforests and ended in a geological survey, wherein the commercialvalue of syenite, porphyry, trachite and dialite were severallycanvassed.

　　The article was signed "G. G." It is said of T. X. that hisgreatest virtue was his curiosity. He had at the tip of hisfingers the names of all the big explorers and author-travellers,and for some reason he could not place "G. G." to hissatisfaction, in fact he had an absurd desire to interpret theinitials into "George Grossmith." His inability to identify thewriter irritated him, and his first act on reaching his office wasto telephone to one of the literary editors of the Times whom heknew.

　　"Not my department," was the chilly reply, "and besides we nevergive away the names of our contributors. Speaking as a personoutside the office I should say that "G. G." was 'GeorgeGathercole' the explorer you know, the fellow who had an armchewed off by a lion or something.""George Gathercole!" repeated T. X. "What an ass I am.""Yes," said the voice at the other end the wire, and he had rungoff before T. X. could think of something suitable to say.

　　Having elucidated this little side-line of mystery, the matterpassed from the young Commissioner's mind. It happened thatmorning that his work consisted of dealing with John Lexman'sestate.

　　With the disappearance of the couple he had taken over control oftheir belongings. It had not embarrassed him to discover that hewas an executor under Lexman's will, for he had already acted astrustee to the wife's small estate, and had been one of theparties to the ante-nuptial contract which John Lexman had madebefore his marriage.

　　The estate revenues had increased very considerably. All thevanished author's books were selling as they had never soldbefore, and the executor's work was made the heavier by the factthat Grace Lexman had possessed an aunt who had most ininconsiderately died, leaving a considerable fortune to her"unhappy niece.""I will keep the trusteeship another year," he told the solicitorwho came to consult him that morning. "At the end of that time Ishall go to the court for relief.""Do you think they will ever turn up?" asked the solicitor, anelderly and unimaginative man.

　　"Of course, they'll turn up!" said T. X. impatiently; "all theheroes of Lexman's books turn up sooner or later. He willdiscover himself to us at a suitable moment, and we shall beproperly thrilled."That Lexman would return he was sure. It was a faith from whichhe did not swerve.

　　He had as implicit a confidence that one day or other Kara, themagnificent, would play into his hands.

　　There were some queer stories in circulation concerning the Greek,but on the whole they were stories and rumours which weredifficult to separate from the malicious gossip which invariablyattaches itself to the rich and to the successful.

　　One of these was that Kara desired something more than an Albanianchieftainship, which he undoubtedly enjoyed. There were whispersof wider and higher ambitions. Though his father had been born aGreek, he had indubitably descended in a direct line from one ofthose old Mprets of Albania, who had exercised their briefauthority over that turbulent land.

　　The man's passion was for power. To this end he did not sparehimself. It was said that he utilized his vast wealth for thisreason, and none other, and that whatever might have been theirregularities of his youth - and there were adduced concreteinstances - he was working toward an end with a singleness ofpurpose, from which it was difficult to withhold admiration.

　　T. X. kept in his locked desk a little red book, steel bound andtriple locked, which he called his "Scandalaria." In this heinscribed in his own irregular writing the titbits which might notbe published, and which often helped an investigator to light uponthe missing threads of a problem. In truth he scorned no sourceof information, and was conscienceless in the compilation of thissomewhat chaotic record.

　　The affairs of John Lexman recalled Kara, and Kara's greatreception. Mansus would have made arrangements to secure averbatim report of the speeches which were made, and these wouldbe in his hands by the night. Mansus did not tell him that Karawas financing some very influential people indeed, that a certainUnder-secretary of State with a great number of very influentialrelations had been saved from bankruptcy by the timely advanceswhich Kara had made. This T. X. had obtained through sourceswhich might be hastily described as discreditable. Mansus knew ofthe baccarat establishment in Albemarle Street, but he did notknow that the neurotic wife of a very great man indeed, no lessthan the Minister of Justice, was a frequent visitor to thatestablishment, and that she had lost in one night some 6,000pounds. In these circumstances it was remarkable, thought T. X.,that she should report to the police so small a matter as thepetty pilfering of servants. This, however, she had done andwhilst the lesser officers of Scotland Yard were interrogatingpawnbrokers, the men higher up were genuinely worried by thelady's own lapses from grace.

　　It was all sordid but, unfortunately, conventional, because highlyplaced people will always do underbred things, where money orwomen are concerned, but it was necessary, for the proper conductof the department which T. X. directed, that, however sordid andhowever conventional might' be the errors which the great ones ofthe earth committed, they should be filed for reference.

　　The motto which T. X. went upon in life was, "You never know."The Minister of Justice was a very important person, for he was apersonal friend of half the monarchs of Europe. A poor man, withtwo or three thousand a year of his own, with no very definitepolitical views and uncommitted to the more violent policies ofeither party, he succeeded in serving both, with profit tohimself, and without earning the obloquy of either. Though he didnot pursue the blatant policy of the Vicar of Bray, yet it is factwhich may be confirmed from the reader's own knowledge, that heserved in four different administrations, drawing the pay andemoluments of his office from each, though the fundamentalpolicies of those four governments were distinct.

　　Lady Bartholomew, the wife of this adaptable Minister, hadrecently departed for San Remo. The newspapers announced the factand spoke vaguely of a breakdown which prevented the lady fromfulfilling her social engagements.

　　T. X., ever a Doubting Thomas, could trace no visit of nervespecialist, nor yet of the family practitioner, to the officialresidence in Downing Street, and therefore he drew conclusions.

　　In his own "Who's Who" T. X. noted the hobbies of his victimswhich, by the way, did not always coincide with the innocentoccupations set against their names in the more pretentiousvolume. Their follies and their weaknesses found a place and wererecorded at a length (as it might seem to the uninformed observer)beyond the limit which charity allowed.

　　Lady Mary Bartholomew's name appeared not once, but many times, inthe erratic records which T. X. kept. There was a plainmatter-of-fact and wholly unobjectionable statement that she wasborn in 1874, that she was the seventh daughter of the Earl ofBalmorey, that she had one daughter who rejoiced in the somewhatunpromising name of Belinda Mary, and such further information asa man might get without going to a great deal of trouble.

　　T. X.,refreshing his memory from the little red book, wonderedwhat unexpected tragedy had sent Lady Bartholomew out of London inthe middle of the season. The information was that the lady wasfairly well off at this moment, and this fact made matters all themore puzzling and almost induced him to believe that, after all,the story was true, and a nervous breakdown really was the causeof her sudden departure. He sent for Mansus.

　　"You saw Lady Bartholomew off at Charing Cross, I suppose?"Mansus nodded.

　　"She went alone?""She took her maid, but otherwise she was alone. I thought shelooked ill.""She has been looking ill for months past," said T. X., withoutany visible expression of sympathy.

　　"Did she take Belinda Mary?"Mansus was puzzled. "Belinda Mary?" he repeated slowly. "Oh, youmean the daughter. No, she's at a school somewhere in France."T. X. whistled a snatch of a popular song, closed the little redbook with a snap and replaced it in his desk.

　　"I wonder where on earth people dig up names like Belinda Mary?"he mused. "Belinda Mary must be rather a weird little animal -the Lord forgive me for speaking so about my betters! If hereditycounts for anything she ought to be something between a headwaiter and a pack of cards. Have you lost anything'?"Mansus was searching his pockets.

　　"I made a few notes, some questions I wanted to ask you about andLady Bartholomew was the subject of one of them. I have had herunder observation for six months; do you want it kept up?"T. X. thought awhile, then shook his head.

　　"I am only interested in Lady Bartholomew in so far as Kara isinterested in her. There is a criminal for you, my friend!" headded, admiringly.

　　Mansus busily engaged in going through the bundles of letters,slips of paper and little notebooks he had taken from his pocket,sniffed audibly.

　　"Have you a cold?" asked T. X. politely.

　　"No, sir," was the reply, "only I haven't much opinion of Kara asa criminal. Besides, what has he got to be a criminal about? Hehas all that he requires in the money department, he's one of themost popular people in London, and certainly one of thebest-looking men I've ever seen in my life. He needs nothing."T. X. regarded him scornfully.

　　"You're a poor blind brute," he said, shaking his head; don't youknow that great criminals are never influenced by materialdesires, or by the prospect of concrete gains? The man, who robshis employer's till in order to give the girl of his heart the25-pearl and ruby brooch her soul desires, gains nothing but theglow of satisfaction which comes to the man who is thought wellof. The majority of crimes in the world are committed by peoplefor the same reason - they want to be thought well of. Here isDoctor X. who murdered his wife because she was a drunkard and aslut, and he dared not leave her for fear the neighbours wouldhave doubts as to his respectability. Here is another gentlemanwho murders his wives in their baths in order that he should keepup some sort of position and earn the respect of his friends andhis associates. Nothing roused him more quickly to a frenzy ofpassion than the suggestion that he was not respectable. Here isthe great financier, who has embezzled a million and a quarter,not because he needed money, but because people looked up to him.

　　Therefore, he must build great mansions, submarine pleasure courtsand must lay out huge estates - because he wished that he shouldbe thought well of.

　　Mansus sniffed again.

　　"What about the man who half murders his wife, does he do that tobe well thought of?" he asked, with a tinge of sarcasm.

　　T. X. looked at him pityingly.

　　"The low-brow who beats his wife, my poor Mansus," he said, "doesso because she doesn't think well of him. That is our rulingpassion, our national characteristic, the primary cause of mostcrimes, big or little. That is why Kara is a bad criminal andwill, as I say, end his life very violently."He took down his glossy silk hat from the peg and slipped into hisovercoat.

　　"I am going down to see my friend Kara," he said. "I have afeeling that I should like to talk with him. He might tell mesomething."His acquaintance with Kara's menage had been mere hearsay. He hadinterviewed the Greek once after his return, but since all hisefforts to secure information concerning the whereabouts of JohnLexman and his wife - the main reason for his visit been in vain,he had not repeated his visit.

　　The house in Cadogan Square was a large one, occupying a cornersite. It was peculiarly English in appearance with its windowboxes, its discreet curtains, its polished brass and enamelleddoorway. It had been the town house of Lord Henry Gratham, thateccentric connoisseur of wine and follower of witless pleasure.

　　It had been built by him "round a bottle of port," as his friendssaid, meaning thereby that his first consideration had been thecellarage of the house, and that when those cellars had been builtand provision made for the safe storage of his priceless wines,the house had been built without the architect's being greatlytroubled by his lordship. The double cellars of Gratham Househad, in their time, been one of the sights of London. WhenHenry Gratham lay under eight feet of Congo earth (he was killedby an elephant whilst on a hunting trip) his executors had beensingularly fortunate in finding an immediate purchaser. Rumourhad it that Kara, who was no lover of wine, had bricked up thecellars, and their very existence passed into domestic legendary.

　　The door was opened by a well-dressed and deferential man-servantand T. X. was ushered into the hall. A fire burnt cheerily in abronze grate and T. X. had a glimpse of a big oil painting of Karaabove the marble mantle-piece.

　　"Mr. Kara is very busy, sir," said the man.

　　"Just take in my card," said T. X. "I think he may care to seeme."The man bowed, produced from some mysterious corner a silversalver and glided ups............