Angus, who had hitherto maintained hilarious ease from motives of mental hygiene, revealed the strain of his soul by striding abruptly out of the inner room and confronting the new-comer.  A glance at him was quite sufficient to confirm the savage guesswork of a man in love.  This very dapper but dwarfish figure, with the spike of black beard carried insolently forward, the clever unrestful eyes, the neat but very nervous fingers, could be none other than the man just described to him:  Isidore Smythe, who made dolls out of banana skins and match-boxes; Isidore Smythe, who made millions out of undrinking butlers and unflirting housemaids of metal.  For a moment the two men, instinctively understanding each other’s air of possession, looked at each other with that curious cold generosity which is the soul of rivalry.

Mr. Smythe, however, made no allusion to the ultimate ground of their antagonism, but said simply and explosively, “Has Miss Hope seen that thing on the window?”

“On the window?” repeated the staring Angus.

“There’s no time to explain other things,” said the small millionaire shortly.  “There’s some tomfoolery going on here that has to be investigated.”

He pointed his polished walking-stick at the window, recently depleted by the bridal preparations of Mr. Angus; and that gentleman was astonished to see along the front of the glass a long strip of paper pasted, which had certainly not been on the window when he looked through it some time before.  Following the energetic Smythe outside into the street, he found that some yard and a half of stamp paper had been carefully gummed along the glass outside, and on this was written in straggly characters, “If you marry Smythe, he will die.”

“Laura,” said Angus, putting his big red head into the shop, “you’re not mad.”

“It’s the writing of that fellow Welkin,” said Smythe gruffly.  “I haven’t seen him for years, but he’s always bothering me.  Five times in the last fortnight he’s had threatening letters left at my flat, and I can’t even find out who leaves them, let alone if it is Welkin himself.  The porter of the flats swears that no suspicious characters have been seen, and here he has pasted up a sort of dado on a public shop window, while the people in the shop—­”

“Quite so,” said Angus modestly, “while the people in the shop were having tea.  Well, sir, I can assure you I appreciate your common sense in dealing so directly with the matter.  We can talk about other things afterwards.  The fellow cannot be very far off yet, for I swear there was no paper there when I went last to the window, ten or fifteen minutes ago.  On the other hand, he’s too far off to be chased, as we don’t even know the direction.  If you’ll take my advice, Mr. Smythe, you’ll put this at once in the hands of some energetic inquiry man, private rather than public.  I know an extremely clever fellow, who has set up in business five minutes from here in your car.  His name’s Flambeau, and though his youth was a bit stormy, he’s a strictly honest man now, and his brains are worth money.  He lives in Lucknow Mansions, Hampstead.”