“Hallo! Innes,” said Paul Harley as his secretary entered. “Someone is making a devil of a row outside.”
 
“This is the offender, Mr. Harley,” said Innes, and handed my friend a visiting card.
 
Glancing at the card, Harley read aloud:
 
“Major J. E. P. Ragstaff, Cavalry Club.”
 
Meanwhile a loud harsh voice, which would have been audible in a full gale, was roaring in the lobby.
 
“Nonsense!” I could hear the Major shouting. “Balderdash! There's more fuss than if I had asked for an interview with the Prime Minister. Piffle! Balderdash!”
 
Innes's smile developed into a laugh, in which Harley joined, then:
 
“Admit the Major,” he said.
 
Into the study where Harley and I had been seated quietly smoking, there presently strode a very choleric Anglo-Indian. He wore a horsy check suit and white spats, and his tie closely resembled a stock. In his hand he carried a heavy malacca cane, gloves, and one of those tall, light-gray hats commonly termed white. He was below medium height, slim and wiry; his gait and the shape of his legs, his build, all proclaimed the dragoon. His complexion was purple, and the large white teeth visible beneath a bristling gray moustache added to the natural ferocity of his appearance. Standing just within the doorway:
 
“Mr. Paul Harley?” he shouted.
 
It was apparently an inquiry, but it sounded like a reprimand.
 
My friend, standing before the fireplace, his hands in his pockets and his pipe in his mouth, nodded brusquely.
 
“I am Paul Harley,” he said. “Won't you sit down?”
 
Major Ragstaff, glancing angrily at Innes as the latter left the study, tossed his stick and gloves on to a settee, and drawing up a chair seated himself stiffly upon it as though he were in a saddle. He stared straight at Harley, and:
 
“You are not the sort of person I expected, sir,” he declared. “May I ask if it is your custom to keep clients dancin' on the mat and all that—on the blasted mat, sir?”
 
Harley suppressed a smile, and I hastily reached for my cigarette-case which I had placed upon the mantelshelf.
 
“I am always naturally pleased to see clients, Major Ragstaff,” said Harley, “but a certain amount of routine is necessary even in civilian life. You had not advised me of your visit, and it is contrary to my custom to discuss business after five o'clock.”
 
As Harley spoke the Major glared at him continuously, and then:
 
“I've seen you in India!” he roared; “damme! I've seen you in India!—and, yes! in Turkey! Ha! I've got you now sir!” He sprang to his feet. “You're the Harley who was in Constantinople in 1912.”
 
“Quite true.”
 
“Then I've come to the wrong shop.”
 
“That remains to be seen, Major.”
 
“But I was told you were a private detective, and all that.”
 
“So I am,” said Harley quietly. “In 1912 the Foreign Office was my client. I am now at the service of anyone who cares to employ me.”
 
“Hell!” said the Major.
 
He seemed to be temporarily stricken speechless by the discovery that a man who had acted for the British Government should be capable of stooping to the work of a private inquiry agent. Staring all about the room with a sort of naive wonderment, he drew out a big silk handkerchief and loudly blew his nose, all the time eyeing Harley questioningly. Replacing his handkerchief he directed his regard upon me, and:
 
“This is my friend, Mr. Knox,” said Harley; “you may state your case before him without hesitation, unless———”
 
I rose to depart, but:
 
“Sit down, Mr. Knox! Sit down, sir!” shouted the Major. “I have no dirty linen to wash, no skeletons in the cupboard or piffle of that kind. I simply want something explained which I am too thick-headed—too damned thick-headed, sir—to explain myself.”
 
He resumed his seat, and taking out his wallet extracted from it a small newspaper cutting which he offered to Harley.
 
“Read that, Mr. Harley,” he directed. “Read it aloud.”
 
Harley read as follows:
 
“Before Mr. Smith, at Marlborough Street Police Court, John Edward Bampton was charged with assaulting a well-known clubman in Bond Street on Wednesday evening. It was proved by the constable who made the arrest that robbery had not been the motive of the assault, and Bampton confessed that he bore no grudge against the assailed man, indeed, that he had never seen him before. He pleaded intoxication, and the police surgeon testified that although not actually intoxicated, his breath had smelled strongly of liquor at the time of his arrest. Bampton's employers testified to a hitherto blameless character, and as the charge was not pressed the man was dismissed with a caution.”
 
Having read the paragraph, Harley glanced at the Major with a puzzled expression.
 
“The point of this quite escapes me,” he confessed.
 
“Is that so?” said Major Ragstaff. “Is that so, sir? Perhaps you will be good enough to read this.”
 
From his wallet he took a second newspaper cutting, smaller than the first, and gummed to a sheet of club notepaper. Harley took it and read as follows:
 
“Mr. De Lana, a well-known member of the Stock Exchange, who met with a serious accident recently, is still in a precarious condition.”
 
The puzzled look on Harley's face grew more acute, and the Major watched him with an expression which I can only describe as one of fierce enjoyment.
 
“You're thinkin' I'm a damned old fool, ain't you?............