"Thank you," replied Carrados, returning the measure to his pocket,
"four and seven-eighths is quite near enough. Now we will take the
next train back."

Sunday evening came, and with it Mr. Carlyle to The Turrets at the
appointed hour. He brought to the situation a mind poised for any
eventuality and a trenchant eye. As the time went on and the
impenetrable Carrados made no illusion to the case, Carlyle's manner
inclined to a waggish commiseration of his host's position. Actually,
he said little, but the crisp precision of his voice when the path lay
open to a remark of any significance left little to be said.

It was not until they had finished dinner and returned to the library
that Carrados gave the slightest hint of anything unusual being in the
air. His first indication of coming events was to remove the key from
the outside to the inside of the door.

"What are you doing, Max?" demanded Mr. Carlyle, his curiosity
overcoming the indirect attitude.

"You have been very entertaining, Louis," replied his friend, "but
Parkinson should be back very soon now and it is as well to be
prepared. Do you happen to carry a revolver?"

"Not when I come to dine with you, Max," replied Carlyle, with all the
aplomb he could muster. "Is it usual?"

Carrados smiled affectionately at his guest's agile recovery and
touched the secret spring of a drawer in an antique bureau by his