"Now look here, my good man," bellowed Sir Charles Draykelsworth, shaking his fist in the air. An American motorcar, whose driver was presently the focus of Sir Draykelsworth's ire, sped away into the London traffic.

Draykelsworth looked down at his soiled overcoat. Covered as it was in oily splashes of street-water, it would be most costly to clean, if indeed it could be rescued at all.

Here, where a mean or spiteful man would have hired a cab and given chase, Draykelsworth merely closed his eyes, whispered a silent oath, and proceeded with his morning constitutional.

For Charles Draykelsworth was neither mean nor spiteful, nor was he given to the fits of rage that bedevil weaker men. He had the slow temper and relaxed air of a man who had experienced hardships far more severe than damp or dirt.

He knew, also, that he would experience those hardships again, perhaps within a fortnight. How he relished that thought!

"Soon," he said aloud, "all the treasures of Povtevkin shall be within my grasp!"