The clock had scarcely finished striking six when a two-seated car,
throaty but sonorous, came to a standstill in front of the house in
Clarges Street where Rose, Leonard and I had our temporary abode. An
elegantly dressed but weary young man was shown into our sitting room.
He bowed to Rose and addressed me.
"You're Maurice Lister, what, and Mr. Leonard Cotton?" he began. "No use
telling you my name because you wouldn't know it. I've brought you a
message."