Mr. Carlyle could not pretend to misunderstand.  He enjoyed the distinction of holding open the door for the transatlantic representative of the line of Offa as he went out, and then made his way through the muddy streets back to his office.  There was only one way of tracing a private individual at such short notice—­through the pages of the directories, and the gentleman did not flatter himself by a very high estimate of his chances.

Fortune favoured him, however.  He very soon discovered a Wynn Carrados living at Richmond, and, better still, further search failed to unearth another.  There was, apparently, only one householder at all events of that name in the neighbourhood of London.  He jotted down the address and set out for Richmond.

The house was some distance from the station, Mr. Carlyle learned.  He took a taxicab and drove, dismissing the vehicle at the gate.  He prided himself on his power of observation and the accuracy of his deductions which resulted from it-a detail of his business.  “It’s nothing more than using one’s eyes and putting two and two together,” he would modestly declare, when he wished to be deprecatory rather than impressive.  By the time he had reached the front door of “The Turrets” he had formed some opinion of the position and tastes of the people who lived there.

A man-servant admitted Mr. Carlyle and took his card—­his private card, with the bare request for an interview that would not detain Mr. Carrados for ten minutes.  Luck still favoured him; Mr. Carrados was at home and would see him at once.  The servant, the hall through which they passed, and the room into which he was shown, all contributed something to the deductions which the quietly observant gentleman, was half unconsciously recording.

“Mr. Carlyle,” announced the servant.

The room was a library or study.  The only occupant, a man of about Carlyle’s own age, had been using a typewriter up to the moment of his visitor’s entrance.  He now turned and stood up with an expression of formal courtesy.

“It’s very good of you to see me at this hour,” apologised Mr. Carlyle.

The conventional expression of Mr. Carrados’s face changed a little.

“Surely my man has got your name wrong?” he explained.  “Isn’t it Louis Calling?”

Mr. Carlyle stopped short and his agreeable smile gave place to a sudden flash of anger or annoyance.

“No sir,” he replied stiffly.  “My name is on the card which you have before you.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Carrados, with perfect good-humour.  “I hadn’t seen it.  But I used to know a Calling some years ago—­at St. Michael’s.”

“St. Michael’s!” Mr. Carlyle’s features underwent another change, no less instant and sweeping than before.  “St. Michael’s!  Wynn Carrodos?  Good heavens! it isn’t Max Wynn—­old ‘Winning’ Wynn”?

“A little older and a little fatter—­yes,” replied Carrados.  “I have changed my name you see.”