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"I don't know whether Mr. Morlake is hin or whether he's hout," he said. "If you wait a bit I'll see."

He closed the door in his visitor's face and went into the big Oriental room where James Morlake was reading.

"He says his name is Kelly, sir, and maybe it his and maybe it hain't."

"What did he say his business was?" asked Morlake, closing his book.

"He said he'd met you in Morocco some years ago, and had only just found your address."

"Show him in, will you?" said James Morlake after a moment's thought, and Mr. Marborne, strolling into the big room, took in its beauty with an admiring glance.

"Sit down, Mr. Kelly. I have no chairs, because I have no visitors—perhaps you will sit on the divan."

Marborne seated himself with a little smirk.

"It is a long time since I met you, Mr. Morlake. I suppose you don't remember me dining at your table at the Cecil, in Tangier, some ten years ago?"

"I have a dim recollection," said Morlake, eyeing his visitor carelessly.

"I was travelling for a hardware firm," said Marborne glibly, and all the time he was speaking he was casting his eyes around, trying to find some little article by which his man might be identified on some future and vital occasion. "I don't know whether you trouble to keep chance acquaintances in your mind, but I have a very pleasant recollection of our meeting."