The little car shot up to the right house like a bullet, and shot out its owner like a bomb shell.  He was immediately inquiring of a tall commissionaire in shining braid, and a short porter in shirt sleeves, whether anybody or anything had been seeking his apartments.  He was assured that nobody and nothing had passed these officials since his last inquiries; whereupon he and the slightly bewildered Angus were shot up in the lift like a rocket, till they reached the top floor.

“Just come in for a minute,” said the breathless Smythe.  “I want to show you those Welkin letters.  Then you might run round the corner and fetch your friend.”  He pressed a button concealed in the wall, and the door opened of itself.

It opened on a long, commodious ante-room, of which the only arresting features, ordinarily speaking, were the rows of tall half-human mechanical figures that stood up on both sides like tailors’ dummies.  Like tailors’ dummies they were headless; and like tailors’ dummies they had a handsome unnecessary humpiness in the shoulders, and a pigeon-breasted protuberance of chest; but barring this, they were not much more like a human figure than any automatic machine at a station that is about the human height.  They had two great hooks like arms, for carrying trays; and they were painted pea-green, or vermilion, or black for convenience of distinction; in every other way they were only automatic machines and nobody would have looked twice at them.  On this occasion, at least, nobody did.  For between the two rows of these domestic dummies lay something more interesting than most of the mechanics of the world.  It was a white, tattered scrap of paper scrawled with red ink; and the agile inventor had snatched it up almost as soon as the door flew open.  He handed it to Angus without a word.  The red ink on it actually was not dry, and the message ran, “If you have been to see her today, I shall kill you.”

There was a short silence, and then Isidore Smythe said quietly, “Would you like a little whiskey?  I rather feel as if I should.”

“Thank you; I should like a little Flambeau,” said Angus, gloomily.  “This business seems to me to be getting rather grave.  I’m going round at once to fetch him.”

“Right you are,” said the other, with admirable cheerfulness.  “Bring him round here as quick as you can.”

But as Angus closed the front door behind him he saw Smythe push back a button, and one of the clockwork images glided from its place and slid along a groove in the floor carrying a tray with syphon and decanter.  There did seem something a trifle weird about leaving the little man alone among those dead servants, who were coming to life as the door closed.