nothing back from me?"

The doctor looked at him with grim, impassive face. "There is
nothing to keep back," he declared. "You have the constitution of
a cowboy. There is no reason why you should not live for another
thirty years."

Mr. Fentolin sighed, as though a weight had been removed from his
heart.

"I will now," he decided, reaching forward for the handle of his
carriage, "go down to the Tower. It is just possible that a few
days' seclusion might be good for our guest."

The doctor turned silently away. There was no one there to see his
expression as he walked towards the door.




CHAPTER VII

The two men who were supping together in the grillroom at the Cafe
Milan were talking with a seriousness which seemed a little out of
keeping with the rose-shaded lamps and the swaying music of the
band from the distant restaurant. Their conversation had started
some hours before in the club smoking-room and had continued
intermittently throughout the evening. It had received a further
stimulus when Richard Hamel, who had bought an Evening Standard on
their way from the theatre a few minutes ago, came across a certain