a chance of living up to its reputation.

I walked slowly along Piccadilly, and turned up Rupert Street. A magic
name. Prince Florizel of Bohemia had ended his days there in his
tobacconist's divan. Mr. Gilbert's Policeman Forth had been discovered
there by the men of London at the end of his long wanderings through
Soho. Probably, if the truth were known, Rudolf Rassendyl had spent
part of his time there. It could not be that Rupert Street would send
me empty away.

My confidence was not abused. Turning into Rupert Court, a dark and
suggestive passage some short distance up the street on the right, I
found a curious little comedy being played.

A door gave on to the deserted passageway, and on each side of it stood
a man--the lurcher type of man that is bred of London streets. The door
opened inwards. Another man stepped out. The hands of one of the
lurchers flew to the newcomer's mouth. The hands of the other lurcher
flew to the newcomer's pockets.

At that moment I advanced.

The lurchers vanished noiselessly and instantaneously.

Their victim held out his hand.

"Come in, won't you?" he said, smiling sleepily at me.

I followed him in, murmuring something about "caught in the act."