be well thought of?" he asked, with a tinge of sarcasm.

T. X. looked at him pityingly.

"The low-brow who beats his wife, my poor Mansus," he said, "does
so because she doesn't think well of him. That is our ruling
passion, our national characteristic, the primary cause of most
crimes, big or little. That is why Kara is a bad criminal and
will, as I say, end his life very violently."

He took down his glossy silk hat from the peg and slipped into his
overcoat.

"I am going down to see my friend Kara," he said. "I have a
feeling that I should like to talk with him. He might tell me
something."

His acquaintance with Kara's menage had been mere hearsay. He had
interviewed the Greek once after his return, but since all his
efforts to secure information concerning the whereabouts of John
Lexman and his wife - the main reason for his visit been in vain,
he had not repeated his visit.

The house in Cadogan Square was a large one, occupying a corner
site. It was peculiarly English in appearance with its window
boxes, its discreet curtains, its polished brass and enamelled
doorway. It had been the town house of Lord Henry Gratham, that
eccentric connoisseur of wine and follower of witless pleasure.
It had been built by him "round a bottle of port," as his friends
said, meaning thereby that his first consideration had been the