"Yes, sir."
"Any letters?"
"Three, sir, and a small parcel. I put them on your table. Shall I get you something, sir?"
"No, thanks. I've just had a huge supper. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, sir. Any orders for the morning?"
"Let me sleep as long as I like, unless I'm wanted."
Theydon entered the sitting room. He opened the letters. Two were of no moment; the third was a request from the editor of a magazine that the "copy" of his article on the "Forbes Peace Propaganda" should be forwarded as speedily as practicable. What a mad world it was, to be sure! Here was an important periodical waiting impatiently for the views of the millionaire on the best means of securing peace on earth and good will to all men, while that same master mind was obsessed with fear of a few Chinese bandits. Society was looking to Forbes for a promised panacea against war and its evils; Forbes himself was wondering whether bolts and locks and armed servants and policemen would protect him and his from the claws of the Young Manchus!
Theydon heard Bates locking and bolting the outer door of the flat with a certain thankfulness. He was thinking of the sheer impossibility of any marauder gaining access to No. 18, when he opened the small parcel which the valet had spoken of. He speculated idly as to the nature of its contents, because he could not remember having ordered any article which would be contained in so tiny a package.
He took out a piece of stout paper, folded twice, and a little white object fell to the table and rolled over several times, finally coming to rest with a curious suddenness. It was a small, carved, ivory skull!