which Basil's bull's eyes were glaring.

He was a slim, smooth person, passing very quickly among the
quickly passing crowd, but though there was nothing about him
sufficient to attract a startled notice, there was quite enough to
demand a curious consideration when once that notice was attracted.
He wore a black top-hat, but there was enough in it of those
strange curves whereby the decadent artist of the eighties tried to
turn the top-hat into something as rhythmic as an Etruscan vase.
His hair, which was largely grey, was curled with the instinct of
one who appreciated the gradual beauty of grey and silver. The rest
of his face was oval and, I thought, rather Oriental; he had two
black tufts of moustache.

"What has he done?" I asked.

"I am not sure of the details," said Grant, "but his besetting sin
is a desire to intrigue to the disadvantage of others. Probably he
has adopted some imposture or other to effect his plan."

"What plan?" I asked. "If you know all about him, why don't you
tell me why he is the wickedest man in England? What is his name?"

Basil Grant stared at me for some moments.

"I think you've made a mistake in my meaning," he said. "I don't
know his name. I never saw him before in my life."

"Never saw him before!" I cried, with a kind of anger; "then what
in heaven's name do you mean by saying that he is the wickedest man