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THERE is a letter for you, monsieur,” said the concierge of the Hôtel du Soleil et de l’Ecosse.

He was a shabby concierge sharing in the tarnish of the shabby hotel which (for the information of those fortunate ones who only know of the Ritz, and the Meurice and other such-like palaces) is situated in the unaristocratic neighbourhood of the Halles Centrales.

“As it bears the Paris postmark, it must be the one which monsieur was expecting,” said he, detaching it from the clip on the keyboard.

“You are perfectly right,” said Martin Overshaw. “I recognise the handwriting.”

The young Englishman sat on the worn cane seat in the little vestibule and read his letter. It ran:

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