The torn envelope which had held the message to Shaik Tsin lay at his feet.  Nogam had not bothered to worry it open so carefully that it might be resealed without inviting comment; though that need not have been a difficult matter, thanks to the dampness of the night air.

Of the envelope addressed to Sturm, however, he was more considerate; to violate its integrity and seal it up again was an undertaking that required the nicest handling.  Nor was it accomplished much before the train drew into Charing Cross.

Outside the station taxis were few and drivers arrogant; and all the ’buses were packed to the guards with law-abiding Londoners homeward bound from theatres and halls.  So Nogam dived into the Underground, to come to the surface again at St. James’s Park station, whence he trotted all the way to Queen Anne’s Gate, arriving at his destination in a phase of semi-prostration which a person of advancing years and doddering habits might have anticipated.

Such fidelity in characterization deserved good reward, and had in it a rare stroke of fortune; for as he drew up to it, the door opened, and Sturm came out, saw Nogam, and stopped short.

“Thank ’Eaven, sir, I got ’ere in time,” the butler panted.  “If I’d missed you, Prince Victor wouldn’t ’ave been in ’arf a wax.  ’E told me I must find you to-night if I ’ad to turn all Lunnon inside out.”

Pressing the message into Sturm’s hand, he rested wearily against the casing of the door, his body shaken by laboured breathing, and—­while Sturm, with an exclamation of excitement, ripped open the envelope—­surveyed the dark and rain-wet street out of the corners of his eyes.

Across the way a slinking shadow left the sidewalk and blended indistinguishably with the crowded shadows of an areaway.

In a voice more than commonly rich with accent, Sturm demanded sharply: 

“What is this?  I do not understand!”

He shook in Nogam’s face the half-sheet of notepaper on which the Chinese phonograms were drawn.

“Sorry, sir, but I ’aven’t any hidea.  Prince Victor didn’t tell me anything except there would be no answer, and I was to ’urry right back to Frampton Court.”  Nogam peered myopically at the paper.  “It might be ’Ebrew, sir,” he hazarded, helpfully—­“by the looks of it, I mean.  I suppose some private message, ’e thought you’d understand.”

“Hebrew, you fool!  Damn your impudence!  Do you take me for a Jew?”

“Beg pardon, sir—­no ’arm meant.”

“No,” Sturm declared, “it’s Chinese.”

“Then likely Prince Victor meant you to ask Shaik Tsin to translate it for you, sir.”

“Probably,” Sturm muttered.  “I’ll see.”

“Yes, sir.  Good-night, sir.”

Without acknowledging this civility, Sturm turned back into the house and slammed the door.  Nogam lingered another moment, then shuffled wearily down the steps and toward the nearest corner.