"But who knows you're here?" Moira objected.
"That's right," I said. "Who does?"
I opened the door of the room and looked out. The maid, who was coming down the passage, caught sight of me. "There's a gentleman wishes to see you, Mr. Carstairs," she announced.
"Show him in here," I said.
I turned back into the room. "You'd better stop here, Moira," I said as she made a movement to go. "It can't be anything private. It's just as likely that it's something that interests you too."
She sat down again.
The maid ushered the newcomer into the room. I ran my eye over him as I advanced to meet him. He was small and dapper, and his air of self-possession was almost perfect. His features were clean-cut, dark eyes glowed in a face that had evidently been exposed to the weather for many years, and his brow was surmounted by a mass of black curls.
"Mr. Carstairs?" he asked.
"That's me," I said truthfully but ungrammatically.
"This will explain my business," he said, and handed me a piece of pasteboard. I took it from him; it was one of Bryce's visiting cards, and scribbled across the foot of it were these words:—"Introducing Mr. Albert Cumshaw. H. Bryce."