For a second the stranger did not respond. Then, almost
unexpectedly, he smiled.

"After all, if it amuses you--" he said; and, searching in his
waistcoat pocket, he drew out the required card.

"It will leave you quite unenlightened," he added. "The name
of a failure never spells anything." With another smile,
partly amused, partly ironical, he stepped from the little
island and disappeared into the throng of traffic.

Chilcote stood for an instant gazing at the point where he had
vanished; then, turning to the lamp, he lifted the card and
read the name it bore: "Mr. John Loder, 13 Clifford's Inn."




II


On the morning following the night of fog Chilcote woke at
nine. He woke at the moment that his man Allsopp tiptoed
across the room and laid the salver with his early cup of tea
on the table beside the bed.

For several seconds he lay with his eyes shut; the effort of
opening them on a fresh day--the intimate certainty of what he
would see on opening them--seemed to weight his lids. The