Full of curiosity as I was, I thought it better at this point not to tempt Fate any further.  At any moment the man with the scar might look round, and although I was some distance away, it was quite likely that if he did he would recognize my reflection in the mirror.  I was doubly anxious now to avoid any such mischance, so, picking up La Vie, I opened its immoral but conveniently spacious pages, and from behind their shelter waited for my bill.

It was not long in coming.  Impassive as ever, the waiter reappeared with his little silver tray, which this time contained a white slip folded across in the usual fashion.  As I took it up I felt something inside, and opening it I discovered a small visiting card with the following inscription: 

MR. BRUCE LATIMER
145 Jermyn Street, W.

Scribbled across the top in pencil were the following words: 

“Thanks.  I shall be still more grateful if you will look me up at the above address.”

Quickly and unobtrusively I tucked it away in my waistcoat pocket, and glancing at the total of the bill, which came to about fifteen shillings, put down a couple of my few remaining sovereigns.  It pays to be a little extravagant when you have been well served.

A swift inspection of the mirror showed me that neither of the occupants of the end table was looking in my direction, so taking my chance I rose quickly to my feet and stepped forward behind the shelter of the nearest pillar.  Here I was met by another waiter who handed me my hat and stick, while his impassive colleague, pocketing the two pounds, advanced to the door and opened it before me with a polite bow.  I felt rather like the hero of a melodrama making his exit after the big scene.

Once in the street, the full realization of what I had just been through came to me with a sort of curious shock.  It seemed an almost incredible thing that a man should make an attempt to drug or poison another in a public restaurant, but, unless I was going off my head, that was what had actually occurred.  Of course I might possibly have been mistaken in what I saw in the glass, but the readiness with which Mr. Latimer (somehow the name seemed vaguely familiar to me) had accepted my hint rather knocked that theory on the head.  It showed that he, at all events, had not regarded such a contingency as being the least bit incredible.

I began to try and puzzle out in my mind what bearings this amazing incident could have on my own affairs.  I was not even sure as yet whether the man with the scar had been really spying on my movements or whether my seeing him twice on the night of my arrival in Town had been purely a matter of coincidence.  If he was a friend of McMurtrie’s, it seemed to stand to reason that’ Mr. Bruce Latimer was not.  Even in such a weird sort of syndicate as I had apparently stumbled against it was hardly probable that the directors would attempt to poison each other in West End restaurants.