The hint brought Royson back to earth. He signed "Richard King," dried
the ink carefully, and marveled a little at his re-christening and its
sequel.

"When and where shall I report myself for duty, sir?" he asked.

Von Kerber looked up. His tone grew affable again, and Dick had learnt
already that it is a token of weakness when a man insists on his own
predominance.

"First let me fill in a date and the amount of your salary." The Baron
completed and signed a duplicate. "Get that stamped at Somerset House,
in case of accident," he continued, "I might have been killed this very
day, you know. One of my servants will witness both documents. Before
he comes in, put this envelope in your pocket. It contains half of your
first month's salary in advance, and you will find in it a card with
the address of a firm of clothiers, who will supply your outfit free of
charge. Call on them early to-morrow, as the time is short, and you are
pretty long, yes? Report yourself to the same people at four o'clock on
Wednesday afternoon. They will have your baggage ready, and give you
full directions. From that moment you are in my service. And now, the
order is silence, yes?"

While the Baron was speaking he touched an electric bell. The waxen-
faced man-servant appeared, laboriously wrote "William Jenkins" where
he was bid, and escorted Royson to the door. The Baron merely nodded
when Dick said "Good night, sir." He had picked up an opera hat and
overcoat from a chair, but was bestowing a hasty farewell glance on the
Persi-Arabic letter.