II. THE GREEN BUNGALOW

It was shortly after nine o’clock when Harley walked down the steps of the Metropolitan Hotel and made his way in the direction of Brunswick Square. There he stopped at No. 201, and rang the bell. In response, there appeared a manservant, correctly attired enough, but somewhat dark of skin, and speaking a soft accent that suggested vaguely South America. In answer to Harley’s question he replied that Mr. Macglendy was at that moment in the drawing-room with the mistress of the house, and two other gentlemen, whom Harley placed in his mind as Prest, his friend and rival, and Mark Shute. Macglendy he did know, but found him to be a tall, rather handsome spare man, with a prominent nose of the Jewish type, and a splendid beard that flowed over his chest. He was a pleasant mannered man enough, shrewd and worldly, with a pronounced Scotch accent that seemed also grotesque with a man who carried a Semitic suggestion in every line and gesture of him. Mrs. Macglendy appeared to be absolutely pale and colourless, like a sort of frightened atomaton that moved and spoke in a dream, and, quite evidently under the hypnotic influence of her husband. Her face was an absolute mask, and her manner exceedingly refined and polished, with a suggestion, every now and then, of one who, in her earlier days, had beenau fait with the very best society. But after the first convulsive greeting she dropped back to her seat like a toy that has run down and spoke not another word until the others rose to go.

“Well, we had better be getting along, I think,” Shute suggested. “By the way, Harley, I suppose you didn’t forget to bring those cards along that I asked you for? I am afraid if you did, we shall be more or less in the cart.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” Harley said. “I bought a couple of packs this afternoon, and they are in my pocket at the present moment. I am ready, if the rest of you are.”

“And the car is at the door,” Macglendy said.

They drove along the front presently, past Shoreham until they came at length to the road that leads down to the group of bungalows on the Shorehaven beach. Here the car was dismissed, with instructions to the chauffeur to return shortly after midnight, and the little party made their way over the shingle in the direction of a sort of bluff on the left side of the beach, where they could see the outline of a bungalow that stood a hundred yards or so apart from the other buildings. So far as Harley could