It was no small achievement that the son of a country rector, aided
only by a stout heart, a university education and an excellent
physique-- good recommendations, each and all, but forming the
stock-in-trade of many a man on whose subsequent career "failure" is
writ large-- should have forced himself to the front rank of the most
overcrowded among the professions before attaining his twenty-sixth
year.

It may be taken for granted, therefore, that he was not lacking in the
qualities of close observation and critical analysis. He would, for
instance, be readier than the majority of his fellows to note the
small beginnings of events destined to become important.

Often, of course, his deductions would prove erroneous, but the mere
fact that he habitually exercised his wits in such a way rendered it
equally certain that his judgment would be accurate sometimes. One
such occasion presented itself a few seconds after he had left the
Forbes mansion.

A taxi, summoned by a footman, was in waiting, and Theydon was
crossing the pavement when he noticed a gray landaulet car at rest
beneath the trees at some distance. Mr. Forbes's house stood in a
square, and the gray car had been drawn up on the quiet side of the
roadway, being stationed there, apparently, to await its owner's
behest. Gray cars are common enough in London, but they are usually of
the touring class.

Not often does one see a gray-painted landaulet; hence, the odd though
hardly remarkable fact occurred to Theydon that a precisely similar