of the fact that Gurdon was regarding him with a polite, yet none the
less critical, wonder.

"What is the matter?" the latter asked. "Really, the air seems full of
mystery. Do you know that for the last two minutes you have been
regarding that obese capitalist with a look that was absolutely
murderous? Do you mean to tell me that you have ever seen him before?"

"Indeed, I have," Venner replied. "But on the last occasion of our
meeting, he did not call himself Mark Fenwick, or by any other name so
distinctly British. Look at him now; look at his yellow skin with the
deep patches of purple at the roots of the little hair he has. Mark the
shape of his face and the peculiar oblique slit of his eyelids. Would you
take that man for an Englishman?"

"No, I shouldn't," Gurdon said frankly. "If I had to hazard a guess, I
should say he is either Portuguese or perhaps something of the Mexican
half caste."

"You would not be far wrong," Venner said quietly. "I suppose you thought
that the appearance of that man here tonight was something of a shock to
me. You can little guess what sort of a shock it has been. I promise to
tell you my story presently, so it will have to keep. In the meantime,
it is my mood to sit here and watch that man."

"Personally, I am much more interested in his companion," Gurdon laughed.
"A daughter of the gods, if ever there was one. What a face, and what a
figure! Do you mean to say that you didn't notice her as she came in?"

"Positively I didn't," Venner confessed. "My whole attention was rivetted