When he awoke, it was broad daylight.  Around the corners of the drawn blinds in his bedroom he could see strips of golden sunshine.  Glancing at a clock on the mantlepiece he was amazed to find that the hour was ten o’clock, so, not only had there not been a raid on the premises, but Bates had taken the overnight instructions literally, and allowed him to sleep far beyond the usual hour.

He rose hurriedly, raced to the bathroom and shouted for “breakfast in fifteen minutes.”  He was splashing in his tub when the telephone bell rang, and Bates answered.  Within a few seconds the valet was knocking at the door.

“A Mr. Handyside has rung up, sir,” was the announcement.  “I think he’s an American.  He wants to know if there is anything doin’.  He said you would understand.”

“Tell him I’m alive, and will call at his hotel at 11:30.”

“Yes, sir.”

When Bates brought in the breakfast Theydon was glancing hurriedly through the morning papers.  Some of them contained an allusion to the Eastbourne incident, but no names were mentioned.

A reference to “developments” in connection with the “Innesmore Mansions Murder,” however, caught his eye.  Appended to a brief account of the inquest were the following paragraphs: 

“It may be taken as certain that the police are not altogether at sea as to the motive of this atrocious crime.  Strange as it may seem—­ the victim being a young and attractive lady, living unostentatiously and taking little, if any, part in the social life of London—­ there is some probability that Mrs. Lester’s death was the outcome of political revenge rather than an incident in an interrupted burglary.

“At first, every indication pointed to the act of some ghoul surprised by the unfortunate lady in her bedroom, but we have reason to believe that graver issues to the community-at-large will be revealed when Scotland Yard’s inquiry is completed.  It must not be forgotten that her husband died ‘suddenly’ some six months ago in Shanghai.  Oddly enough, the police are now keeping a close surveillance on Chinese quarters in London, not only in the neighborhood of the docks, but in the fashionable West.  It may, or may not, be a mere coincidence that a Chinaman was arrested yesterday at St. Albans and lodged in Bow Street.

“There are not wanting other similar ‘coincidences’ in places so far apart as a well-known South Coast seaside resort and South Croydon.  At present, the whole matter is nebulous, but striking developments may take place at any hour, and the murder of Mrs. Lester may yet figure as one of the most sensational crimes of recent years.”

Theydon was reading these discreet but exceedingly well-informed sentences with much care, when he noticed that Bates had closed the sitting-room door before beginning to arrange the contents of the tray on the table.  Such an unusual action meant something.

“Well, what is it now?” he inquired, lifting his eyes to the manservant’s impassive face.