Lanyard accepted defeat with a bow.

"To-morrow at nine, then," he said, turning toward the door by which he had
entered.

"At nine," said Mr. Blensop, generous in triumph. "But do you mind going
out this way?"

He moved toward the curtained door opposite the chimney-piece. Lanyard
paused, shrugged, and followed. Mr. Blensop opened the door, disclosing a
vista of Ninety-fifth Street.

"Thank _you_, Mr. Ember. _Good_-night," he intoned.

The door closed with the click of a spring latch.

Lanyard stood alone in the street, looking swiftly this way and that, his
hand closing upon that little bunch of keys in his pocket, his humour
lawless.

For the name inscribed on that card which Mr. Blensop had so carelessly
dropped was one to fill Lanyard with consuming anxiety for better
acquaintance with its present wearer.

Written in pencil, with all the individual angularity of French
chirography, the name was Andre Duchemin.