On his study table--a curious note of modernism where everything seemed to belong to a bygone world--was a cablegram.

He tore it open.

It consisted of one word only.

He let the thin paper fall fluttering from his fingers.

So the time was fixed! Then Soto came gliding noiselessly into the room, fully dressed, with tireless eyes but wan face,--Soto, the prototype of his master, the most perfect secretary and servant evolved through all the years.
"Master," he said, "there has been trouble here.