“Yes, sir.  The lady drove by taxicab from Prince’s Gate to Albemarle Street.”

“Ah!”

“Went up to chambers of Sir Lucien Pyne and was admitted.”

“Well?”

“Twenty minutes later came out.  Lady was with Sir Lucien.  Both walked around to old Bond Street.  The Honorable Quentin Gray—­”

“Ah!” breathed Irvin.

“—­Overtook them there.  He got out of a cab.  He joined them.  All three up to apartments of a professional crystal-gazer styling himself Kazmah ‘the dream-reader.’”

A puzzled expression began to steal over the face of Monte Irvin.  At the sound of the telephone bell he had paled somewhat.  Now he began to recover his habitual florid coloring.

“Go on,” he directed, for the speaker had paused.

“Seven to ten minutes later,” resumed the nasal voice, “Mr. Gray came down.  He hailed a passing cab, but man refused to stop.  Mr. Gray seemed to be very irritable.”

The fact that the invisible speaker was reading from a notebook he betrayed by his monotonous intonation and abbreviated sentences, which resembled those of a constable giving evidence in a police court.

“He walked off rapidly in direction of Piccadilly.  Colleague followed.  Near the Ritz he obtained a cab.  He returned in same to old Bond Street.  He ran upstairs and was gone from four-and-a-half to five minutes.  He then came down again.  He was very pale and agitated.  He discharged cab and walked away.  Colleague followed.  He saw Mr. Gray enter Prince’s Restaurant.  In the hall Mr. Gray met a gent unknown by sight to colleague.  Following some conversation both gents went in to dinner.  They are there now.  Speaking from Dover Street Tube.”

“Yes, yes.  But the lady?”

“A native, possibly Egyptian, apparently servant of Kazmah, came out a few minutes after Mr. Gray had gone for cab, and went away.  Sir Lucien Pyne and lady are still in Kazmah’s rooms.”

“What!” cried Irvin, pulling out his watch and glancing at the disk.  “But it’s after eight o’clock!”

“Yes, sir.  The place is all shut up, and other offices in block closed at six.  Door of Kazmah’s is locked.  I knocked and got no reply.”

“Damn it!  You’re talking nonsense!  There must be another exit.”

“No, sir.  Colleague has just relieved me.  Left two gents over their wine at Prince’s.”

Monte Irvin’s color began to fade slowly.

“Then it’s Pyne!” he whispered.  The hand which held the receiver shook.  “Brisley—­meet me at the Piccadilly end of Bond Street.  I am coming now.”

He put down the telephone, crossed to the wall and pressed a button.  The cigar stump held firmly between his teeth, he stood on the rug before the hearth, facing the door.  Presently it opened and Hinkes came in.

“The car is ready, Hinkes?”

“Yes, sir, as you ordered.  Shall Pattison come round to the door?”