Curiously enough, it was not only the public who persisted in giving him
the credit, but the victims of my ingenuity as well, and the mistake was
destined to bring peril to both of us in a most unexpected manner.

I was at breakfast one morning about a week after our little golfing
holiday, when Quarles telephoned for me to go to him at once. He would
give me no information, except that it was an urgent matter, and it was
like him to ignore the possibility that I might have another
engagement. As it happened I was free that morning, and was soon on my
way to Chelsea.

I found him studying some pamphlets and letters which had apparently come
altogether in the big envelope which was lying on the table.

"Have you seen the paper this morning?" he asked.

"I had just opened it when you 'phoned to me."

"Did you read that?"

He pointed to a paragraph headed, "Strange Affair in Savoy Street," and I
read as follows:

"Last night, just after twelve o'clock, an elderly gentleman was walking
down Savoy Street, and was approaching the Embankment end, when a man
stepped from a doorway and deliberately fired at him. This was the old
gentleman's story told to half a dozen pedestrians who came running to
the spot. He seemed rather dazed, as well he might be, at the sudden
attack, and his assailant had disappeared. None of those who were first