The house was some distance from the station, Mr. Carlyle learned. He
took a taxicab and drove, dismissing the vehicle at the gate. He
prided himself on his power of observation and the accuracy of his
deductions which resulted from it-a detail of his business. "It's
nothing more than using one's eyes and putting two and two together,"
he would modestly declare, when he wished to be deprecatory rather
than impressive. By the time he had reached the front door of "The
Turrets" he had formed some opinion of the position and tastes of the
people who lived there.

A man-servant admitted Mr. Carlyle and took his card--his private
card, with the bare request for an interview that would not detain Mr.
Carrados for ten minutes. Luck still favoured him; Mr. Carrados was at
home and would see him at once. The servant, the hall through which
they passed, and the room into which he was shown, all contributed
something to the deductions which the quietly observant gentleman, was
half unconsciously recording.

"Mr. Carlyle," announced the servant.

The room was a library or study. The only occupant, a man of about
Carlyle's own age, had been using a typewriter up to the moment of his
visitor's entrance. He now turned and stood up with an expression of
formal courtesy.

"It's very good of you to see me at this hour," apologised Mr.
Carlyle.

The conventional expression of Mr. Carrados's face changed a little.