Barry Raymond drew the latchkey out of the door and entered his small flat in Kensington just as the clock in the tiny hall chimed the hour of ten. It was a wet night, and he drew off his Burberry and hung it up with a sense of pleasure in being again in his cosy little eyrie at the top of the chilly stone steps. Humming a tune, he crossed the diminutive hall and went into the sitting-room, where the cheerful crackle of a small wood fire gave an air of comfort to the hearth. On the table, where his admirable manservant had placed it, was a tray bearing glasses, a siphon and a bottle of whisky, and beside the tray were the few letters which had come by the last post, while in a conspicuous place lay a telegram in its tawny envelope, and this, naturally enough, was the first thing Barry touched. Taking it up, he tore it open decisively, and as the envelope fell to the ground, he unfolded the pink paper and read the message scrawled thereon.
