“Been kicked out, gov’nor?” the youth inquired.  “You’re the third this morning.”

“Is that so?” answered Parker.  “Who were the other two, lad?”

“The girl wot comes to do his nails.  A stunnin’ bird, too.  She came down cryin’ a few minutes ago.  Then—­”

“Shut up, Chivers!” cried the hall porter.  “You’re asking for the sack, and I’m the man to get it for you.”

Chivers did not appear to be vastly perturbed by this prospect, and he grinned agreeably at Parker as the latter made his way out into the courtyard.

Any one sufficiently interested to have done so might have found matter for surprise had he followed that conscientious bootmaker as he left the hotel.  He did not proceed to the shop of Mr. Jarvis, but, crossing the Strand, mounted a citybound motor bus and proceeded eastward upon it as far as the Law Courts.  Here he dismounted and plunged into that maze of tortuous lanes which dissects the triangle formed by Chancery Lane and Holborn.

His step was leisurely, and once he stopped to light his pipe, peering with interest into the shop window of a law stationer.  Finally he came to another little shop which had once formed part of a private house.  It was of the lock-up variety, and upon the gauze blind which concealed the interior appeared the words:  “The Chancery Agency.”

Whether the Chancery Agency was a press agency, a literary or a dramatic agency, was not specified, but Mr. Parker was evidently well acquainted with the establishment, for he unlocked the door with a key which he carried and, entering a tiny shop, closed and locked the door behind him again.

The place was not more than ten yards square and the ceiling was very low.  It was barely furnished as an office, but evidently Mr. Parker’s business was not of a nature to detain him here.  There was a second door to be unlocked; and beyond it appeared a flight of narrow stairs—­at some time the servant’s stair of the partially demolished house which had occupied that site in former days.  Relocking this door in turn, Mr. Parker mounted the stair and presently found himself in a spacious and well-furnished bedroom.

This bedroom contained an extraordinary number of wardrobes, and a big dressing table with wing mirrors lent a theatrical touch to the apartment.  This was still further enhanced by the presence of all sorts of wigs, boxes of false hair, and other items of make-up.  At the table Mr. Parker seated himself, and when, half an hour later, the bedroom door was opened, it was not Mr. Parker who crossed the book-lined study within and walked through to the private office where Innes was seated writing.  It was Mr. Paul Harley.

CHAPTER XI.  THE PURPLE STAIN

For more than an hour Harley sat alone, smoking, neglectful of the routine duties which should have claimed his attention.  His face was set and grim, and his expression one of total abstraction.  In spirit he stood again in that superheated room at the Savoy.  Sometimes, as he mused, he would smoke with unconscious vigour, surrounding himself with veritable fog banks.  An imaginary breath of hyacinths would have reached him, to conjure up vividly the hateful, perfumed environment of Ormuz Khan.