On its way back to Leith the red motor paused in front of Mr. Ball’s store, and that gentleman was summoned in the usual manner.

“Do you see this Braden once in a while?” Mr. Crewe demanded.

Mr. Ball looked knowing.

“Tell him I want to have a talk with him,” said Mr. Crewe.  “I’ve been to see Mr. Flint, and I think matters can be arranged.  And mind you, no word about this, Ball.”

“I guess I understand a thing or two,” said Mr. Ball.  “Trust me to handle it.”

Two days later, as Mr. Crewe was seated in his study, his man entered and stood respectfully waiting for the time when he should look up from his book.

“Well, what is it now, Waters?”

“If you please, sir,” said the man, “a strange message has come over the telephone just now that you were to be in room number twelve of the Ripton House to-morrow at ten o’clock.  They wouldn’t give any name, sir,” added the dignified Waters, who, to tell the truth, was somewhat outraged, nor tell where they telephoned from.  But it was a man’s voice, sir.”

“All right,” said Mr. Crewe.

He spent much of the afternoon and evening debating whether or not his dignity would permit him to go.  But he ordered the motor at half-past nine, and at ten o’clock precisely the clerk at the Ripton House was bowing to him and handing him, deferentially, a dripping pen.

“Where’s room number twelve?” said the direct Mr. Crewe.

“Oh,” said the clerk, and possessing a full share of the worldly wisdom of his calling, he smiled broadly.  “I guess you’ll find him up there, Mr. Crewe.  Front, show the gentleman to number twelve.”

The hall boy knocked on the door of number twelve.

“C—­come in,” said a voice.  “Come in.”

Mr. Crewe entered, the hall boy closed the door, and he found himself face to face with a comfortable, smooth-faced man seated with great placidity on a rocking-chair in the centre of the room, between the bed and the marble-topped table:  a man to whom, evidently, a rich abundance of thought was sufficient company, for he had neither newspaper nor book.  He rose in a leisurely fashion, and seemed the very essence of the benign as he stretched forth his hand.

“I’m Mr. Crewe,” the owner of that name proclaimed, accepting the hand with no exaggeration of cordiality.  The situation jarred on him a trifle.

“I know.  Seed you on the road once or twice.  How be you?”

Mr. Crewe sat down.

“I suppose you are Mr. Braden,” he said.

Mr. Braden sank into the rocker and fingered a waistcoat pocket full of cigars that looked like a section of a cartridge-belt.

“T—­try one of mine,” he said.

“I only smoke once after breakfast,” said Mr. Crewe.

“Abstemious, be you?  Never could find that it did me any hurt.”