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The man listened quietly, brooding, his elbows upon the table, his inscrutable face propped in the crotch of his hand. A ruby, set quaintly in a cobra's head, gleamed from a ring upon his little finger. Presently he roused.

"That's all to-night, my boy," he said gravely. "You've served me well."

He drew out his purse, extracted two sovereigns, and laid them in the messenger's hand.

"And this," he said softly, holding up a third gold piece, "is for—discretion! You comprehend?"

The boy shot a swift glance, not unmixed with terror, at the still, recumbent figure in the corner, mumbled an assent, and withdrew. Out in the dampness of the fog, he took a long, deep breath. After all, he reflected, such affairs were not in the province of a night-messenger. They belonged to Scotland Yard. And certainly the man paid well.

As the door closed behind him, his employer leaned back in his chair, and smiled into the sombre eyes of his companion.

"At last!" he breathed softly. "The thing moves. The wheels are beginning to revolve!"