"I've just seen someone whom I wish to avoid, so won't you be good
enough to dine with me in my apartment. It's No. 972, and cosy and
quiet--and please come at once. I'm waiting for you--with an explanation
for my disappearance.

"EDITH CLEPHANE."

"Hum!" said Harleston, and drummed thoughtfully on the table. Then he
arose, said a word to Philippe as he passed, and went out to the
elevator.

He got off at the ninth floor and walked down the corridor to No. 972.
It was a corner and overlooked Pennsylvania Avenue and Fourteenth
Street. He tapped lightly on the door; almost immediately it was opened
by a maid--a very pretty maid, he noticed--who, without waiting for him
to speak, addressed him as Monsieur Harleston and told him that Madame
was expecting him.

Harleston handed the maid his hat, stick, and gloves, and crossed the
private hall into the drawing-room.

As he passed the doorway, a heavy silk handkerchief was flung around his
neck from behind, and instantly tightened over his larynx; at the same
time his arms were pinioned to his side. He could neither make a sound
nor raise a hand. He was being garroted. At his first struggle the
garrote was twisted; it was be quiet or be strangled. And, queer as it
may seem, his first thought was of the garroters of India and the
instant helplessness of their victims. In fact, so immediate was his
helplessness, that it sapped all will to be otherwise than quiescent.