At least he made no pretence at mystery; his light baggage lay about,
a dressing bag, a roll of rugs, a couple of sticks and an umbrella
strapped together, all very neat and precise and respectable, and all
alike furnished with a parchment tag or label bearing in plain
language all that I wanted to know.

His name was printed "Lieut.-Col. Basil Annesley," and his club, the
Mars and Neptune, that famous military house in Piccadilly.
Underneath, on all, his destination was written, "Hotel Bellevue,
Bellagio, Como." There could never be the least difficulty in finding
this person if I wanted him, as I thought likely. He was a blustering,
swashbuckling army officer, who could always be brought to account if
he misconducted himself, or mixed himself up in shady transactions.

In my great contentment at the discovery I had been wanting in
caution, and I lingered too long on forbidden ground.

"You infernal scoundrel," cried some one from the door, and once more
I felt an angry hand on my shoulder. "How come you here? Explain
yourself."

"It's all a mistake," I began, trying to make the best of it,
struggling to get free. But he still held me in a grip of iron, and it
was not until my friend Jules appeared that I got out of the enemy's
clutches.

"Here, I say!" shouted Jules vaguely. "This won't do, you know. I
shall have to lodge a complaint against you for brawling."