“Then come,” said Thorndyke. “The assignation is for one o’clock, and, if we walk slowly, we shall just hit it off.”

We sauntered up Inner Temple Lane, and, crossing Fleet Street, headed sedately for the tavern. As we entered the quaint old-world dining-room, Thorndyke looked round and a gentleman, who was seated with a companion at a table in one of the little boxes or compartments, rose and saluted us.

“Let me introduce you to my friend Mr. Stephen Blackmore,” he said as we approached. Then, turning to his companion, he introduced us by our respective names.

“I engaged this box,” he continued, “so that we might be private if we wished to have a little preliminary chat; not that beefsteak pudding is a great help to conversation. But when people have a certain business in view, their talk is sure to drift towards it, sooner or later.”