“Those are matters for Scotland Yard,” Francis replied, with an indifferent little wave of the hand which held his cigarette.  “Details are for the professional.  I seek that corner in Hell where the thunders are welded and the poison gases mixed.  In other words, I seek for the brains of crime.”

“Believe me, we do not see enough of one another, my young friend,” Sir Timothy said earnestly.  “You interest me more and more every time we meet.  I like your allegories, I like your confidence, which in any one except a genius would seem blatant.  When can we dine together and talk about crime?”

“The sooner the better,” Francis replied promptly.  “Invite me, and I will cancel any other engagement I might happen to have.”

Sir Timothy considered for a moment.  The June sunshine was streaming down upon them and the atmosphere was a little oppressive.

“Will you dine with me at Hatch End to-night?” he asked.  “My daughter and I will be alone.”

“I should be delighted,” Francis replied promptly.  “I ought to tell you, perhaps, that I have called three times upon your daughter but have not been fortunate enough to find her at home.”

Sir Timothy was politely apologetic.

“I fear that my daughter is a little inclined to be morbid,” he confessed.  “Society is good for her.  I will undertake that you are a welcome guest.”

“At what time do I come and how shall I find your house?” Francis enquired.

“You motor down, I suppose?” Sir Timothy observed.  “Good!  In Hatch End any one will direct you.  We dine at eight.  You had better come down as soon as you have finished your day’s work.  Bring a suitcase and spend the night.”

“I shall be delighted,” Francis replied.

“Do not,” Sir Timothy continued, “court disappointment by over-anticipation.  You have without doubt heard of my little gatherings at Hatch End.  They are viewed, I am told, with grave suspicion, alike by the moralists of the City and, I fear, the police.  I am not inviting you to one of those gatherings.  They are for people with other tastes.  My daughter and I have been spending a few days alone in the little bungalow by the side of my larger house.  That is where you will find us—­The Sanctuary, we call it.”

“Some day,” Francis ventured, “I shall hope to be asked to one of your more notorious gatherings.  For the present occasion I much prefer the entertainment you offer.”

“Then we are both content,” Sir Timothy said, smiling.  “Au revoir!”

Francis walked across Green Park, along the Mall, down Horse Guards Parade, along the Embankment to his rooms on the fringe of the Temple.  Here he found his clerk awaiting his arrival in some disturbance of spirit.

“There is a young gentleman here to see you, sir,” he announced.  “Mr. Reginald Wilmore his name is, I think.”

“Wilmore?” Francis repeated.  “What have you done with him?”