stances. My man will be about, so that it will take very little longer."
"I'll get through for you," volunteered Darragh. "What's your number?"
The telephone was in a corner of the room. The connection was soon obtained and Darragh turned to his guest for the message.
"I'd better speak," said Carrados—he had limped across on Hulse's arm—taking over the receiver. "Excellent fellow, but he'd probably conclude that I'd been killed. . . . That you, Parkinson? . . . Yes, at 155 Densham Gardens. I'm held up here by a slight accident. . . . No, no, nothing serious, but I might have some difficulty in getting back without assistance. Tell Harris I shall need him after all, as soon as he can get here—the car that's handiest. That's—oh, and, Parkinson, bring along a couple of substantial walking-sticks with you. Any time now. That's all. . . . Yes . . . yes." He put up the receiver with a thrill of satisfaction that he had got his message safely through. "Held up"—a phrase at once harmless and significant—was the arranged shift-key into code. It was easy for a blind man to receive some hurt that held him up. Once or twice Carrados's investigations had got him into tight places, but in one way or another he had invariably got out again.
“How far is your place away?” someone asked, and out of the reply a time-marking conversation on the subject of getting about London’s darkened streets and locomotion in general arose. Under cover of this Kato drew Darragh aside to the deserted card-table.
"Not your pencil, Darragh?" he said quietly, displaying the one he had picked up.
"No; why?"
"I not altogether like this, is why," replied the Japa-
