I pocketed the slip of paper.

"One moment, sir," I said, as I realized that it was a pink bald
head, and not a red face, which was fronting me. "I am not very
clear yet why I am to interview this gentleman. What has he done?"

The face flashed back again.

"Went to South America on a solitary expedeetion two years ago.
Came back last year. Had undoubtedly been to South America, but
refused to say exactly where. Began to tell his adventures in a
vague way, but somebody started to pick holes, and he just shut
up like an oyster. Something wonderful happened--or the man's a
champion liar, which is the more probable supposeetion. Had some
damaged photographs, said to be fakes. Got so touchy that he
assaults anyone who asks questions, and heaves reporters down
the stairs. In my opinion he's just a homicidal megalomaniac with
a turn for science. That's your man, Mr. Malone. Now, off you
run, and see what you can make of him. You're big enough to look
after yourself. Anyway, you are all safe. Employers' Liability
Act, you know."

A grinning red face turned once more into a pink oval, fringed
with gingery fluff; the interview was at an end.

I walked across to the Savage Club, but instead of turning into
it I leaned upon the railings of Adelphi Terrace and gazed
thoughtfully for a long time at the brown, oily river. I can
always think most sanely and clearly in the open air. I took out