Leroux employed no secretary; and his MSS. were typed at his agent’s office.  A most slovenly man in all things, and in business matters especially, he was the despair, not only of his banker, but of his broker; he was a man who, in professional parlance, “deserved to be robbed.”  It is improbable that he had any but the haziest ideas, at any particular time, respecting the state of his bank balance and investments.  He detested the writing of business letters, and was always at great pains to avoid anything in the nature of a commercial rendezvous.  He would sign any document which his lawyer or his broker cared to send him, with simple, unquestioned faith.

His bank he never visited, and his appearance was entirely unfamiliar to the staff.  True, the manager knew him slightly, having had two interviews with him:  one when the account was opened, and the second when Leroux introduced his solicitor and broker—­in order that in the future he might not be troubled in any way with business affairs.

Mr. Soames perceived more and more clearly that the mild deception projected was unlikely to be discovered by its victim; and, at the appointed time, he hastened to the corner of Victoria Street, to his appointment with Gianapolis.  The latter was prompt, for Soames perceived his radiant smile afar off.

The saloon bar of the Red Lion was affably proposed by Mr. Gianapolis as a suitable spot to discuss the business.  Soames agreed, not without certain inward qualms; for the proximity of the hostelry to New Scotland Yard was a disquieting circumstance.

However, since Gianapolis affected to treat their negotiations in the light of perfectly legitimate business, he put up no protest, and presently found himself seated in a very cozy corner of the saloon bar, with a glass of whisky-and-soda on a little table before him, bubbling in a manner which rendered it an agreeable and refreshing sight in the eyes of Mr. Soames.

“You know,” said Gianapolis, the gaze of his left eye bisecting that of his right in a most bewildering manner, “they call this ’the ’tec’s tabernacle!’”

“Indeed,” said Soames, without enthusiasm; “I suppose some of the Scotland Yard men do drop in now and then?”

“Beyond doubt, my dear Soames.”

Soames responded to his companion’s radiant smile with a smile of his own by no means so pleasant to look upon.  Soames had the type of face which, in repose, might be the face of an honest man; but his smile would have led to his instant arrest on any racecourse in Europe:  it was the smile of a pick-pocket.

“Now,” continued Gianapolis, “here is a quarter’s salary in advance.”

From a pocket-book, he took a little brown paper envelope and from the brown paper envelope counted out four five-pound notes, five golden sovereigns, one half-sovereign, and ten shillings’ worth of silver.  Soames’ eyes glittered, delightedly.

“A little informal receipt?” smiled Gianapolis, raising his eyebrows, satanically.  “Here on this page of my notebook I have written:  ’Received from Mr. King for service rendered, 26 pounds, being payment, in advance, of amount due on 31st October 19—­’ I have attached a stamp to the page, as you will see,” continued Gianapolis, “and here is a fountain-pen.  Just sign across the stamp, adding to-day’s date.”