ing gone homeward, and he and his two companions having reached a side street leading into Sussex Square, he suddenly paused and demanded their attention!
"I've particular reasons for wanting to go into that house alone," he said. "There's no danger—trust me. But—if I'm not out again in a quarter of an hour or so, you can come there and ask for me. My own impression is that I shall find Levendale there. And—as you're aware, Andie—I know Levendale." He left them standing in the shadow of a projecting portico and going up to Levendale's front door, rang the bell. There was no light in any of the windows; all appeared to be in dead stillness in the house; somewhere, far off in the interior, he heard the bell tinkle. And suddenly, as he stood waiting and listening, he heard a voice that sounded close by him and became aware that there was a small trap or grille in the door, behind which he made out a face.
"Who is that?" whispered the voice.
"John Purdie—wanting to see Mr. Levendale," he answered promptly.
The door was just as promptly opened, and as Purdie stepped within was as quickly closed behind him. At the same instant the click of a switch heralded a flood of electric light, and he started to see a man standing at his side—a man who gave him a queer, deprecating smile, a man who was not and yet who was Levendale.
"Gracious me!" exclaimed Purdie, "it isn't—"
"Yes!" said Levendale, quietly. "But it is, though! All right, Purdie—come this way."
Purdie followed Levendale into a small room on the right of the hall—a room in which the remains of a cold,
