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Ronald Standish lay back in his chair with a worried look on his usually cheerful face. In his hand he held a letter, which he read over for the second time before tossing it across to me.

“The devil and all, Bob,” he said, shaking his head. “From what I saw in the papers a clearer case never existed.”

I glanced at the note.

Dear Mr Standish (it ran),—

I do hope you will forgive a complete stranger writing to you, but I am in desperate trouble. You will probably remember a very great friend of mine—Isabel Blount, whom you helped some months ago. Well, it was she who advised me to come to you. Would it be possible for you to see me to-morrow afternoon at three o’clock? I shall come, anyway, on the chance of finding you disengaged.

Yours sincerely,