the box close to his elbow, and vanished. He seemed to fairly race down
the room until he was lost in a pile of palms which masked the door.
Gurdon had followed all this with the deepest possible interest. Venner
sat there, apparently lost to all sense of his surroundings. His head was
on his hands, and his mind was apparently far away. Therefore, Gurdon was
left entirely to himself, to study the strange things that were going on
around him. His whole attention was now concentrated upon Fenwick, who
presently tilted his glass of Curacoa dexterously into his coffee cup,
and then stretched out his hand for the silver match box by his side. He
was still talking to his companion while he fumbled for a match without
looking at the little case in his hand. Suddenly he ceased to speak, his
black eyes rivetted on the box. It fell from his fingers as if it had
contained some poisonous insect, and he rose to his feet with a sudden
scream that could be heard all over the room.

There was a quick hush in the conversation, and every head was turned in
the direction of the millionaire's table. Practically every diner there
knew who the man with the yellow head was, so that the startling
interruption was all the more unexpected. Once again the frightened cry
rang out, and then Fenwick stood, gazing with horrified eyes and white,
ghastly face at the innocent looking little box on the table.

"Who brought this here?" he screamed. "Bring that waiter here. Find him
at once. Find him at once, I say. A little man with beady eyes and hair
like rats' tails."

The head waiter bustled up, full of importance; but it was in vain that
he asked for some explanation of what had happened. All Fenwick could do
was to stand there gesticulating and calling aloud for the production of
the erring waiter.