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Rh a silly hoy, even though well versed in the vices of London life. In ignorance of my acquaintance with Mrs. Netherall, his late father's accomplice, he led me to believe that he was the son of a Manchester merchant, and that his slight German accent had been acquired during his school-days at Wiesbaden.

On the night you met me at the Empire, we had dined together at the Savoy, and perhaps you may have noticed that he was without gloves. He had left them behind in the sitting-room.

Something of a dandy, Ronald Snell, son of the great forger and toxicologist, was most particular about his gloves—pale grey suede ones. Only when in a taxi on our way to the Empire did he discover, to his annoyance, that he had left them behind.

"Never mind, my dear fellow. You'll go back with me to supper, and then you can get them," I said reassuringly.

That afternoon I had introduced him to absinthe while we had sat at one of those little tables in the Café de l'Europe, in Leicester Square. After we left you we returned there, and he had yet another absinthe, I was trying an experiment.

Then we took a taxi to the Savoy, where