Pamela followed her guide into a parlour, redolent of stale cigar
smoke, with oilcloth on the floor and varnished walls, an abode even
more horrible than Hassan's lair. Joseph closed the door carefully
behind him, and made no apology for his dishabille. He simply faced
Pamela.

"Say, what is it you want with me?" he demanded truculently.

"A trifle," she answered. "The key of the chapel in the little plot of
waste ground next Henry's."

She meant him to be staggered, and he was. He reeled back for a moment.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he gasped.

"Facts," Pamela replied. "Do you want to save yourself, Joseph? You can
do it if you choose."

He folded his arms and stood in front of the closed door. Without a
collar, his neck bulged unpleasantly behind. There was nothing whatever
left of the suave and genial chef d'orchestra.

"Save myself from what, eh? Just let me get wise about it."

Pamela's eyebrows were daintily elevated.

"Dear me!" she murmured. "I thought you were more intelligent. Listen.
You know where we met last? Let me remind you. You were playing in the
Winter Garden at Berlin, and the gentleman whom I was with, an attache
at the American Embassy, spoke to you. He told me a good deal about