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Title: The Evil Shepherd

Author: E. Phillips Oppenheim

Release Date: May, 2004 [EBook #5743]
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[This file was first posted on August 21, 2002]

Edition: 10

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THE EVIL SHEPHERD BY E. PHILIPS OPPENHEIM






CHAPTER I


Francis Ledsam, alert, well-satisfied with himself and the world,
the echo of a little buzz of congratulations still in his ears,
paused on the steps of the modern Temple of Justice to light a
cigarette before calling for a taxi to take him to his club.
Visions of a whisky and soda--his throat was a little parched
--and a rubber of easy-going bridge at his favourite table, were
already before his eyes.  A woman who had followed him from the
Court touched him on the shoulder.

"Can I speak to you for a moment, Mr. Ledsam?"

The barrister frowned slightly as he swung around to confront his
questioner.  It was such a familiar form of address.

"What do you want?" he asked, a little curtly.

"A few minutes' conversation with you," was the calm reply.  "The
matter is important."

The woman's tone and manner, notwithstanding her plain,
inconspicuous clothes, commanded attention.  Francis Ledsam was a
little puzzled.  Small things meant much to him in life, and he
had been looking forward almost with the zest of a schoolboy to
that hour of relaxation at his club.  He was impatient of even a
brief delay, a sentiment which he tried to express in his
response.

"What do you want to speak to me about?" he repeated bluntly.  "I
shall be in my rooms in the Temple to-morrow morning, any time
after eleven."

"It is necessary for me to speak to you now," she insisted.
"There is a tea-shop across the way.  Please accompany me there."

Ledsam, a little surprised at the coolness of her request,
subjected his accoster to a closer scrutiny.  As he did so, his
irritation diminished.  He shrugged his shoulders slightly.

"If you really have business with me," he said, "I will give you
a few minutes."

They crossed the street together, the woman self-possessed,
negative, wholly without the embarrassment of one performing an
unusual action.  Her companion felt the awakening of curiosity.
Zealously though she had, to all appearance, endeavoured to
conceal the fact, she was without a doubt personable.  Her voice
and manner lacked nothing of refinement.  Yet her attraction to
Francis Ledsam, who, although a perfectly normal human being, was
no seeker after promiscuous adventures, did not lie in these
externals.  As a barrister whose success at the criminal bar had
been phenomenal, he had attained to a certain knowledge of human
nature.  He was able, at any rate, to realise that this woman was
no imposter.  He knew that she had vital things to say.

They passed into the tea-shop and found an empty corner.  Ledsam
hung up his hat and gave an order.  The woman slowly began to
remove her gloves.  When she pushed back her veil, her vis-a-vis
received almost a shock.  She was quite as good-looking as he had
imagined, but she was far younger--she was indeed little more
than a girl.  Her eyes were of a deep shade of hazel brown, her
eyebrows were delicately marked, her features and poise
admirable.  Yet her skin was entirely colourless.  She was as
pale as one whose eyes have been closed in death.  Her lips,
although in no way highly coloured, were like streaks of scarlet
blossom upon a marble image.  The contrast between her appearance
and that of her companion was curiously marked.  Francis Ledsam
conformed in no way to the accepted physical type of his
profession.  He was over six feet in height, broad-shouldered and
powerfully made.  His features were cast in a large mould, he was
of fair, almost sandy complexion, even his mouth was more
humourous than incisive.  His eyes alone, grey and exceedingly
magnetic, suggested the gifts which without a doubt lay behind
his massive forehead.

"I am anxious to avoid any possible mistake," she began.  "Your
name is Francis Ledsam?"

"It is," he admitted.

"You are the very successful criminal barrister," she continued,
"who has just been paid an extravagant fee to defend Oliver
Hilditch."

"I might take exception to the term 'extravagant'," Ledsam
observed drily.  "Otherwise, your information appears to be
singularly correct.  I do not know whether you have heard the
verdict.  If not, you may be interested to know that I succeeded
in obtaining the man's acquittal."

"I know that you did," the woman replied.  "I was in the Court
when the verdict was brought in.  It has since occurred to me
that I should like you to understand exactly what you have done,
the responsibility you have incurred."

Ledsam raised his eyebrows.

"Responsibility?" he repeated.  "What I have done is simple
enough.  I have earned a very large fee and won my case."

"You have secured the acquittal of Oliver Hilditch," she
persisted.  "He is by this time a free man.  Now I am going to
speak to you of that responsibility.  I am going to tell you a
little about the man who owes his freedom to your eloquence."

It was exactly twenty minutes after their entrance into the
teashop when the woman finished her monologue.  She began to draw
on her gloves again.  Before them were two untasted cups of tea
and an untouched plate of bread and butter.  From a corner of the
room the waitress was watching them curiously.

"Good God!" Francis Ledsam exclaimed at last, suddenly realising
his whereabouts.  "Do you mean to affirm solemnly that what you
have been telling me is the truth?"

The woman continued to button her gloves.  "It is the truth," she
said.

Ledsam sat up and looked around him.  He was a little dazed.  He
had almost the feeling of a man recovering from the influence of
some anaesthetic.  Before his eyes were still passing visions of
terrible deeds, of naked, ugly passion, of man's unscrupulous
savagery.  During those few minutes he had been transported to
New York and Paris, London and Rome.  Crimes had been spoken of
which made the murder for which Oliver Hilditch had just been
tried seem like a trifling indiscretion.  Hard though his
mentality, sternly matter-of-fact as was his outlook, he was
still unable to fully believe in himself, his surroundings, or in
this woman who had just dropped a veil over her ashen cheeks.
Reason persisted in asserting itself.

"But if you knew all this," he demanded, "why on earth didn't you
come forward and give evidence?"

"Because," she answered calmly, as she rose to her feet, "my
evidence would not have been admissible.  I am Oliver Hilditch's
wife."




CHAPTER II


Francis Ledsam arrived at his club, the Sheridan, an hour later
than he had anticipated.  He nodded to the veteran hall-porter,
hung up his hat and stick, and climbed the great staircase to the
card-room without any distinct recollection of performing any of
these simple and reasonable actions.  In the cardroom he
exchanged a few greetings with friends, accepted without comment
or without the slightest tinge of gratification a little chorus
of chafing congratulations upon his latest triumph, and left the
room without any inclination to play, although there was a vacant
place at his favourite table.  From sheer purposelessness he
wandered back again into the hall, and here came his first gleam
of returning sensation.  He came face to face with his most
intimate friend, Andrew Wilmore.  The latter, who had just hung
up his coat and hat, greeted him with a growl of welcome.

"So you've brought it off again, Francis!"

"Touch and go," the barrister remarked.  "I managed to squeak
home."

Wilmore laid his hand upon his friend's shoulder and led the way
towards two easy-chairs in the lounge.

"I tell you what it is, old chap," he confided, "you'll be making
yourself unpopular before long.  Another criminal at large,
thanks to that glib tongue and subtle brain of yours.  The crooks
of London will present you with a testimonial when you're made a
judge."

"So you think that Oliver Hilditch was guilty, then?" Francis
asked curiously.

"My dear fellow, how do I know or care?" was the indifferent
reply.  "I shouldn't have thought that there had been any doubt
about it.  You probably know, anyway."

"That's just what I didn't when I got up to make my speech,"
Francis assured his friend emphatically.  "The fellow was given
an opportunity of making a clean breast of it, of course--Wensley,
his lawyer, advised him to, in fact--but the story he told me
was precisely the story he told at the inquest."

They were established now in their easy-chairs, and Wilmore
summoned a waiter.

"Two large whiskies and sodas," he ordered.  "Francis," he went
on, studying his companion intently, "what's the matter with you?
You don't look as though your few days in the country last week
had done you any good."

Francis glanced around as though to be sure that they were alone.

"I was all right when I came up, Andrew," he muttered.  "This
case has upset me."

"Upset you?  But why the dickens should it?" the other demanded,
in a puzzled tone.  "It was quite an ordinary case, in its way,
and you won it."

"I won it," Francis admitted.

"Your defence was the most ingenious thing I ever heard."

"Mostly suggested, now I come to think of it," the barrister
remarked grimly, "by the prisoner himself."

"But why are you upset about it, anyway?" Wilmore persisted.

Francis rose to his feet, shook himself, and with his elbow
resting upon the mantelpiece leaned down towards his friend.  He
could not rid himself altogether of this sense of unreality.  He
had the feeling that he had passed through one of the great
crises of his life.

"I'll tell you, Andrew.  You're about the only man in the world I
could tell.  I've gone crazy."

"I thought you looked as though you'd been seeing spooks,"
Wilmore murmured sympathetically.

"I have seen a spook," Francis rejoined, with almost passionate
seriousness, "a spook who lifted an invisible curtain with
invisible fingers, and pointed to such a drama of horrors as De
Quincey, Poe and Sue combined could never have imagined.  Oliver
Hilditch was guilty, Andrew.  He murdered the man Jordan--murdered
him in cold blood."

"I'm not surprised to hear that," was the somewhat puzzled reply.

"He was guilty, Andrew, not only of the murder of this man, his
partner, but of innumerable other crimes and brutalities,"
Francis went on.  "He is a fiend in human form, if ever there was
one, and I have set him loose once more to prey upon Society.  I
am morally responsible for his next robbery, his next murder, the
continued purgatory of those forced to associate with him."

"You're dotty, Francis," his friend declared shortly.

"I told you I was crazy," was the desperate reply.  "So would you
be if you'd sat opposite that woman for half-an-hour, and heard
her story."

"What woman?" Wilmore demanded, leaning forward in his chair and
gazing at his friend with increasing uneasiness.

"A woman who met me outside the Court and told me the story of
Oliver Hilditch's life."

"A stranger?"

"A complete stranger to me.  It transpired that she was his
wife."

Wilmore lit a cigarette.

"Believe her?"

"There are times when one doesn't believe or disbelieve," Francis
answered.  "One knows."

Wilmore nodded.

"All the same, you're crazy," he declared.  "Even if you did save
the fellow from the gallows, you were only doing your job, doing
your duty to the best of poor ability.  You had no reason to
believe him guilty."

"That's just as it happened," Francis pointed out.  "I really
didn't care at the time whether he was or not.  I had to proceed
on the assumption that he was not, of course, but on the other
hand I should have fought just as hard for him if I had known him
to be guilty."

"And you wouldn't now--to-morrow, say?"

"Never again."

"Because of that woman's story?"

"Because of the woman."

There was a short silence.  Then Wilmore asked a very obvious
question.

"What sort of a person was she?"

Francis Ledsam was several moments before he replied.  The
question was one which he had been expecting, one which he had
already asked himself many times, yet he was unprepared with any
definite reply.

"I wish I could answer you, Andrew," his friend confessed.  "As a
matter of fact, I can't.  I can only speak of the impression she
left upon me, and you are about the only person breathing to whom
I could speak of that."

Wilmore nodded sympathetically.  He knew that, man of the world
though Francis Ledsam appeared, he was nevertheless a highly
imaginative person, something of an idealist as regards women,
unwilling as a rule to discuss them, keeping them, in a general
way, outside his daily life.

"Go ahead, old fellow," he invited.  "You know I understand."

"She left the impression upon me," Francis continued quietly, "of
a woman who had ceased to live.  She was young, she was beautiful,
she had all the gifts--culture, poise and breeding--but she had
ceased to live.  We sat with a marble table between us, and a
few feet of oil-covered floor.  Those few feet, Andrew, were like
an impassable gulf.  She spoke from the shores of another world.
I listened and answered, spoke and listened again.  And when she
told her story, she went.  I can't shake off the effect she had
upon me, Andrew.  I feel as though I had taken a step to the
right or to the left over the edge of the world."

Andrew Wilmore studied his friend thoughtfully.

He was full of sympathy and understanding.  His one desire at
that moment was not to make a mistake.  He decided to leave
unasked the obvious question.

"I know," he said simply.  "Are you dining anywhere?"

"I thought of staying on here," was the indifferent reply.

"We won't do anything of the sort," Wilmore insisted.  "There's
scarcely a soul in to-night, and the place is too humpy for a man
who's been seeing spooks.  Get back to your rooms and change.
I'll wait here."

"What about you?"

"I have some clothes in my locker.  Don't be long.  And, by-the-bye,
which shall it be--Bohemia or Mayfair?  I'll telephone for a table.
London's so infernally full, these days."

Francis hesitated.

"I really don't care," he confessed.  "Now I think of it, I shall
be glad to get away from here, though.  I don't want any more
congratulations on saving Oliver Hilditch's life.  Let's go where
we are least likely to meet any one we know."

"Respectability and a starched shirt-front, then," Wilmore
decided.  "We'll go to Claridge's."




CHAPTER III


The two men occupied a table set against the wall, not far from
the entrance to the restaurant, and throughout the progress of
the earlier part of their meal were able to watch the constant
incoming stream of their fellow-guests.  They were, in their way,
an interesting contrast physically, neither of them good-looking
according to ordinary standards, but both with many pleasant
characteristics.  Andrew Wilmore, slight and dark, with sallow
cheeks and brown eyes, looked very much what he was--a moderately
successful journalist and writer of stories, a keen golfer, a
bachelor who preferred a pipe to cigars, and lived at Richmond
because he could not find a flat in London which he could afford,
large enough for his somewhat expansive habits.  Francis Ledsam
was of a sturdier type, with features perhaps better known to the
world owing to the constant activities of the cartoonist.  His
reputation during the last few years had carried him,
notwithstanding his comparative youth--he was only thirty-five
years of age--into the very front ranks of his profession, and
his income was one of which men spoke with bated breath.  He came
of a family of landed proprietors, whose younger sons for
generations had drifted always either to the Bar or the Law, and
his name was well known in the purlieus of Lincoln's Inn before
he himself had made it famous.  He was a persistent refuser of
invitations, and his acquaintances in the fashionable world were
comparatively few.  Yet every now and then he felt a mild
interest in the people whom his companion assiduously pointed out
to him.

"A fashionable restaurant, Francis, is rather like your Law
Courts--it levels people up," the latter remarked.  "Louis, the
head-waiter, is the judge, and the position allotted in the room
is the sentence.  I wonder who is going to have the little table
next but one to us.  Some favoured person, evidently."

Francis glanced in the direction indicated without curiosity.
The table in question was laid for two and was distinguished by a
wonderful cluster of red roses.

"Why is it," the novelist continued speculatively, "that,
whenever we take another man's wife out, we think it necessary to
order red roses?"

"And why is it," Francis queried, a little grimly, "that a dear
fellow like you, Andrew, believes it his duty to talk of trifles
for his pal's sake, when all the time he is thinking of something
else?  I know you're dying to talk about the Hilditch case,
aren't you?  Well, go ahead."

"I'm only interested in this last development," Wilmore
confessed.  "Of course, I read the newspaper reports.  To tell
you the truth, for a murder trial it seemed to me to rather lack
colour."

"It was a very simple and straightforward case," Francis said
slowly.  "Oliver Hilditch is the principal partner in an American
financial company which has recently opened offices in the West
End.  He seems to have arrived in England about two years ago, to
have taken a house in Hill Street, and to have spent a great deal
of money.  A month or so ago, his partner from New York arrived
in London, a man named Jordan of whom nothing was known.  It has
since transpired, however, that his journey to Europe was
undertaken because he was unable to obtain certain figures
relating to the business, from Hilditch.  Oliver Hilditch met him
at Southampton, travelled with him to London and found him a room
at the Savoy.  The next day, the whole of the time seems to have
been spent in the office, and it is certain, from the evidence of
the clerk, that some disagreement took place between the two men.
They dined together, however, apparently on good terms, at the
Cafe Royal, and parted in Regent Street soon after ten.  At
twelve o'clock, Jordan's body was picked up on the pavement in
Hill Street, within a few paces of Heidrich's door.  He had been
stabbed through the heart with some needle-like weapon, and was
quite dead."

"Was there any vital cause of quarrel between them?" Wilmore
enquired.

"Impossible to say," Francis replied.  "The financial position of
the company depends entirely upon the value of a large quantity
of speculative bonds, but as there was only one clerk employed,
it was impossible to get at any figures.  Hilditch declared that
Jordan had only a small share in the business, from which he had
drawn a considerable income for years, and that he had not the
slightest cause for complaint."

"What were Hilditch's movements that evening?" Wilmore asked.

"Not a soul seems to have seen him after he left Regent Street,"
was the somewhat puzzled answer.  "His own story was quite
straightforward and has never been contradicted.  He let himself
into his house with a latch-key after his return from the Cafe
Royal, drank a whisky and soda in the library, and went to bed
before half-past eleven.  The whole affair--"

Francis broke off abruptly in the middle of his sentence.  He sat
with his eyes fixed upon the door, silent and speechless.

"What in Heaven's name is the matter, old fellow?" Wilmore
demanded, gazing at his companion in blank amazement.

The latter pulled himself together with an effort.  The sight of
the two new arrivals talking to Louis on the threshold of the
restaurant, seemed for the moment to have drawn every scrap of
colour from his cheeks.  Nevertheless, his recovery was almost
instantaneous.

"If you want to know any more," he said calmly,  "you had better
go and ask him to tell you the whole story himself.  There he
is."

"And the woman with him?" Wilmore exclaimed under his breath.

"His wife!"




CHAPTER IV


To reach their table, the one concerning which Francis and his
friend had been speculating, the new arrivals, piloted by Louis,
had to pass within a few feet of the two men.  The woman, serene,
coldly beautiful, dressed like a Frenchwoman in unrelieved black,
with extraordinary attention to details, passed them by with a
careless glance and subsided into the chair which Louis was
holding.  Her companion, however, as he recognised Francis
hesitated.  His expression of somewhat austere gloom was
lightened.  A pleasant but tentative smile parted his lips.  He
ventured upon a salutation, half a nod, half a more formal bow, a
salutation which Francis instinctively returned.  Andrew Wilmore
looked on with curiosity.

"So that is Oliver Hilditch," he murmured.

"That is the man," Francis observed, "of whom last evening half
the people in this restaurant were probably asking themselves
whether or not he was guilty of murder.  To-night they will be
wondering what he is going to order for dinner.  It is a strange
world."

"Strange indeed," Wilmore assented.  "This afternoon he was in
the dock, with his fate in the balance--the condemned cell or a
favoured table at Claridge's.  And your meeting! One can imagine
him gripping your hands, with tears in his eyes, his voice broken
with emotion, sobbing out his thanks. And instead you exchange
polite bows.  I would not have missed this situation for anything."

"Tradesman!" Francis scoffed.  "One can guess already at the plot
of your next novel."

"He has courage," Wilmore declared.  "He has also a very
beautiful companion.  Were you serious, Francis, when you told me
that that was his wife?"

"She herself was my informant," was the quiet reply.

Wilmore was puzzled.

"But she passed you just now without even a glance of
recognition, and I thought you told me at the club this afternoon
that all your knowledge of his evil ways came from her.  Besides,
she looks at least twenty years younger than he does."

Francis, who had been watching his glass filled with champagne,
raised it to his lips and drank its contents steadily to the last
drop.

"I can only tell you what I know, Andrew," he said, as he set
down the empty glass.  "The woman who is with him now is the
woman who spoke to me outside the Old Bailey this afternoon.  We
went to a tea-shop together.  She told me the story of his
career.  I have never listened to so horrible a recital in my
life."

"And yet they are here together, dining tete-a-tete, on a night
when it must have needed more than ordinary courage for either of
them to have been seen in public at all," Wilmore pointed out.

"It is as astounding to me as it is to you," Francis confessed.
"From the way she spoke, I should never have dreamed that they
were living together."

"And from his appearance," Wilmore remarked, as he called the
waiter to bring some cigarettes, "I should never have imagined
that he was anything else save a high-principled, well-born,
straightforward sort of chap.  I never saw a less criminal type
of face."

They each in turn glanced at the subject of their discussion.
Oliver Hilditch's good-looks had been the subject of many press
comments during the last few days.  They were certainly
undeniable.  His face was a little lined but his hair was thick
and brown.  His features were regular, his forehead high and
thoughtful, his mouth a trifle thin but straight and shapely.
Francis gazed at him like a man entranced.  The hours seemed to
have slipped away.  He was back in the tea-shop, listening to the
woman who spoke of terrible things.  He felt again his shivering
abhorrence of her cold, clearly narrated story.  Again he shrank
from the horrors from which with merciless fingers she had
stripped the coverings.  He seemed to see once more the agony in
her white face, to hear the eternal pain aching and throbbing in
her monotonous tone.  He rose suddenly to his feet.

"Andrew," he begged, "tell the fellow to bring the bill outside.
We'll have our coffee and liqueurs there."

Wilmore acquiesced willingly enough, but even as they turned
towards the door Francis realised what was in store for him.
Oliver Hilditch had risen to his feet.  With a courteous little
gesture he intercepted the passer-by.  Francis found himself
standing side by side with the man for whose life he had pleaded
that afternoon, within a few feet of the woman whose terrible
story seemed to have poisoned the very atmosphere he breathed,
to have shown him a new horror in life, to have temporarily,
at any rate, undermined every joy and ambition he possessed.

"Mr. Ledsam," Hilditch said, speaking with quiet dignity, "I hope
that you will forgive the liberty I take in speaking to you here.
I looked for you the moment I was free this afternoon, but found
that you had left the Court.  I owe you my good name, probably my
life.  Thanks are poor things but they must be spoken."

"You owe me nothing at all," Francis replied, in a tone which
even he found harsh.  "I had a brief before me and a cause to
plead.  It was a chapter out of my daily work."

"That work can be well done or ill," the other reminded him
gently.  "In your case, my presence here proves how well it was
done.  I wish to present you to my wife, who shares my
gratitude."

Francis bowed to the woman, who now, at her husband's words,
raised her eyes.  For the first time he saw her smile.  It seemed
to him that the effort made her less beautiful.

"Your pleading was very wonderful, Mr. Ledsam," she said, a very
subtle note of mockery faintly apparent in her tone.  "We poor
mortals find it difficult to understand that with you all that
show of passionate earnestness is merely--what did you call it?
--a chapter in your day's work?  It is a great gift to be able
to argue from the brain and plead as though from the heart."

"We will not detain Mr. Ledsam," Oliver Hilditch interposed, a
little hastily.  "He perhaps does not care to be addressed in
public by a client who still carries with him the atmosphere of
the prison.  My wife and I wondered, Mr. Ledsam, whether you
would be good enough to dine with us one night.  I think I could
interest you by telling you more about my case than you know at
present, and it would give us a further opportunity, and a more
seemly one, for expressing our gratitude."

Francis had recovered himself by this time.  He was after all a
man of parts, and though he still had the feeling that he had
been through one of the most momentous days of his life, his
savoir faire was making its inevitable reappearance.  He knew
very well that the idea of that dinner would be horrible to him.
He also knew that he would willingly cancel every engagement he
had rather than miss it.

"You are very kind," he murmured.

"Are we fortunate enough to find you disengaged," Hilditch
suggested, "to-morrow evening?"

"I am quite free," was the ready response.

"That suits you, Margaret?" Hilditch asked, turning courteously
to his wife.

For a single moment her eyes were fixed upon those of her
prospective guest.  He read their message which pleaded for his
refusal, and he denied it.

"To-morrow evening will suit me as well as any other," she
acquiesced, after a brief pause.

"At eight o'clock, then--number 10 b, Hill Street," Hilditch
concluded.

Francis bowed and turned away with a murmured word of polite
assent.  Outside, he found Wilmore deep in the discussion of the
merits of various old brandies with an interested maitre d'hotel.

"Any choice, Francis?" his host enquired.

"None whatever," was the prompt reply, "only, for God's sake,
give me a double one quickly!"

The two men were on the point of departure when Oliver Hilditch
and his wife left the restaurant.  As though conscious that they
had become the subject of discussion, as indeed was the case,
thanks to the busy whispering of the various waiters, they passed
without lingering through the lounge into the entrance hall,
where Francis and Andrew Wilmore were already waiting for a
taxicab.  Almost as they appeared, a new arrival was ushered
through the main entrance, followed by porters carrying luggage.
He brushed past Francis so closely that the latter looked into
his face, half attracted and half repelled by the waxen-like
complexion, the piercing eyes, and the dignified carriage of the
man whose arrival seemed to be creating some stir in the hotel.
A reception clerk and a deputy manager had already hastened
forward.  The newcomer waved them back for a moment.  Bareheaded,
he had taken Margaret Hilditch's hands in his and raised them to
his lips.

"I came as quickly as I could," he said.  "There was the usual
delay, of course, at Marseilles, and the trains on were terrible.
So all has ended well."

Oliver Hilditch, standing by, remained speechless.  It seemed for
a moment as though his self-control were subjected to a severe
strain.

"I had the good fortune," he interposed, in a low tone, "to be
wonderfully defended.  Mr. Ledsam here--"

He glanced around.  Francis, with some idea of what was coming,
obeyed an imaginary summons from the head-porter, touched Andrew
Wilmore upon the shoulder, and hastened without a backward glance
through the swing-doors.  Wilmore turned up his coat-collar and
looked doubtfully up at the rain.

"I say, old chap," he protested, "you don't really mean to walk?"

Francis thrust his hand through his friend's arm and wheeled him
round into Davies Street.

"I don't care what the mischief we do, Andrew," he confided, "but
couldn't you see what was going to happen?  Oliver Hilditch was
going to introduce me as his preserver to the man who had just
arrived!"

"Are you afflicted with modesty, all of a sudden?" Wilmore
grumbled.

"No, remorse," was the terse reply.




CHAPTER V


Indecision had never been one of Francis Ledsam's faults, but
four times during the following day he wrote out a carefully
worded telegraphic message to Mrs. Oliver Hilditch, 10 b, Hill
Street, regretting his inability to dine that night, and each
time he destroyed it.  He carried the first message around
Richmond golf course with him, intending to dispatch his caddy
with it immediately on the conclusion of the round.  The fresh
air, however, and the concentration required by the game, seemed
to dispel the nervous apprehensions with which he had anticipated
his visit, and over an aperitif in the club bar he tore the
telegram into small pieces and found himself even able to derive
a certain half-fearful pleasure from the thought of meeting again
the woman who, together with her terrible story, had never for
one moment been out of his thoughts.  Andrew Wilmore, who had
observed his action, spoke of it as they settled down to lunch.

"So you are going to keep your engagement tonight, Francis?" he
observed.

The latter nodded.

"After all, why not?" he asked, a little defiantly.  "It ought to
be interesting."

"Well, there's nothing of the sordid criminal, at any rate, about
Oliver Hilditch," Wilmore declared.  "Neither, if one comes to
think of it, does his wife appear to be the prototype of
suffering virtue.  I wonder if you are wise to go, Francis?"

"Why not?" the man who had asked himself that question a dozen
times already, demanded.

"Because," Wilmore replied coolly, "underneath that steely
hardness of manner for which your profession is responsible, you
have a vein of sentiment, of chivalrous sentiment, I should say,
which some day or other is bound to get you into trouble.  The
woman is beautiful enough to turn any one's head.  As a matter of
fact, I believe that you are more than half in love with her
already."

Francis Ledsam sat where the sunlight fell upon his strong,
forceful face, shone, too, upon the table with its simple but
pleasant appointments, upon the tankard of beer by his side, upon
the plate of roast beef to which he was already doing ample
justice.  He laughed with the easy confidence of a man awakened
from some haunting nightmare, relieved to find his feet once more
firm upon the ground.

"I have been a fool to take the whole matter so seriously,
Andrew," he declared.  "I expect to walk back to Clarges Street
to-night, disillusioned.  The man will probably present me with a
gold pencil-case, and the woman--"

"Well, what about the woman?" Wilmore asked, after a brief pause.

"Oh, I don't know!" Francis declared, a little impatiently.  "The
woman is the mystery, of course.  Probably my brain was a little
over-excited when I came out of Court, and what I imagined to be
an epic was nothing more than a tissue of exaggerations from a
disappointed wife.  I'm sure I'm doing the right thing to go
there ....  What about a four-ball this afternoon, Andrew?"

The four-ball match was played and won in normal fashion.  The
two men returned to town together afterwards, Wilmore to the club
and Francis to his rooms in Clarges Street to prepare for dinner.
At a few minutes to eight he rang the bell of number 10 b, Hill
Street, and found his host and hostess awaiting him in the small
drawing-room into which he was ushered.  It seemed to him that
the woman, still colourless, again marvellously gowned, greeted
him coldly.  His host, however, was almost too effusive.  There
was no other guest, but the prompt announcement of dinner
dispelled what might have been a few moments of embarrassment
after Oliver Hilditch's almost too cordial greeting.  The woman
laid her fingers upon her guest's coat-sleeve.  The trio crossed
the little hall almost in silence.

Dinner was served in a small white Georgian dining-room, with
every appurtenance of almost Sybaritic luxury.  The only light in
the room was thrown upon the table by two purple-shaded electric
lamps, and the servants who waited seemed to pass backwards and
forwards like shadows in some mysterious twilight--even the faces
of the three diners themselves were out of the little pool of
light until they leaned forward.  The dinner was chosen with
taste and restraint, the wines were not only costly but rare.  A
watchful butler, attended now and then by a trim parlour-maid,
superintended the service.  Only once, when she ordered a bowl of
flowers removed from the table, did their mistress address either
of them.  Conversation after the first few amenities speedily
became almost a monologue.  One man talked whilst the others
listened, and the man who talked was Oliver Hilditch.  He
possessed the rare gift of imparting colour and actuality in a
few phrases to the strange places of which he spoke, of bringing
the very thrill of strange happenings into the shadowy room.  It
seemed that there was scarcely a country of the world which he
had not visited, a country, that is to say, where men congregate,
for he admitted from the first that he was a city worshipper,
that the empty places possessed no charm for him.

"I am not even a sportsman," he confessed once, half
apologetically, in reply to a question from his guest.  "I have
passed down the great rivers of the world without a thought of
salmon, and I have driven through the forest lands and across the
mountains behind a giant locomotive, without a thought of the
beasts which might be lurking there, waiting to be killed.  My
only desire has been to reach the next place where men and women
were."

"Irrespective of nationality?" Francis queried.

"Absolutely.  I have never minded much of what race--I have the
trick of tongues rather strangely developed--but I like the
feeling of human beings around me.  I like the smell and sound
and atmosphere of a great city.  Then all my senses are awake,
but life becomes almost turgid in my veins during the dreary
hours of passing from one place to another."

"Do you rule out scenery as well as sport from amongst the joys
of travel?" Francis enquired.

"I am ashamed to make such a confession," his host answered, "but
I have never lingered for a single unnecessary moment to look at
the most wonderful landscape in the world.  On the other hand, I
have lounged for hours in the narrowest streets of Pekin, in the
markets of Shanghai, along Broadway in New York, on the
boulevards in Paris, outside the Auditorium in Chicago.  These
are the obvious places where humanity presses the thickest, but I
know of others.  Some day we will talk of them."

Francis, too, although that evening, through sheer lack of
sympathy, he refused to admit it, shared to some extent
Hilditch's passionate interest in his fellow-creatures, and
notwithstanding the strange confusion of thought into which he
had been thrown during the last twenty-four hours, he felt
something of the pungency of life, the thrill of new and
appealing surroundings, as he sat in his high-backed chair,
sipping his wonderful wine, eating almost mechanically what was
set before him, fascinated through all his being by his strange
company.

For three days he had cast occasional glances at this man, seated
in the criminal dock with a gaoler on either side of him, his
fine, nervous features gaining an added distinction from the
sordidness of his surroundings.  Now, in the garb of
civilisation, seated amidst luxury to which he was obviously
accustomed, with a becoming light upon his face and this strange,
fascinating flow of words proceeding always from his lips, the
man, from every external point of view, seemed amongst the chosen
ones of the world.  The contrast was in itself amazing.  And then
the woman!  Francis looked at her but seldom, and when he did it
was with a curious sense of mental disturbance; poignant but
unanalysable.

It was amazing to see her here, opposite the man of whom she had
told him that ghastly story, mistress of his house, to all
appearance his consort, apparently engrossed in his polished
conversation, yet with that subtle withholding of her real self
which Francis rather imagined than felt, and which somehow seemed
to imply her fierce resentment of her husband's re-entry into the
arena of life.  It was a situation so strange that Francis,
becoming more and more subject to its influence, was inclined to
wonder whether he had not met with some accident on his way from
the Court, and whether this was not one of the heated nightmares
following unconsciousness.

"Tell me," he asked his host, during one of the brief pauses in
the conversation, "have you ever tried to analyse this interest
of yours in human beings and crowded cities, this hatred of
solitude and empty spaces?"

Oliver Hilditch smiled thoughtfully, and gazed at a salted almond
which he was just balancing between the tips of his fingers.

"I think," he said simply, "it is because I have no soul."




CHAPTER VI


The three diners lingered for only a short time over their
dessert.  Afterwards, they passed together into a very delightful
library on the other side of the round, stone-paved hall.
Hilditch excused himself for a moment.

"I have some cigars which I keep in my dressing-room," he
explained, "and which I am anxious for you to try.  There is an
electric stove there and I can regulate the temperature."

He departed, closing the door behind him.  Francis came a little
further into the room.  His hostess, who had subsided into an
easy-chair and was holding a screen between her face and the
fire, motioned him to, seat himself opposite.  He did so without
words.  He felt curiously and ridiculously tongue-tied.  He fell
to studying the woman instead of attempting the banality of
pointless speech.  From the smooth gloss of her burnished hair,
to the daintiness of her low, black brocaded shoes, she
represented, so far as her physical and outward self were
concerned, absolute perfection.  No ornament was amiss, no line
or curve of her figure other than perfectly graceful.  Yet even
the fire's glow which she had seemed to dread brought no flush of
colour to her cheeks.  Her appearance of complete lifelessness
remained.  It was as though some sort of crust had formed about
her being, a condition which her very physical perfection seemed
to render the more incomprehensible.

"You are surprised to see me here living with my husband, after
what I told you yesterday afternoon?" she said calmly, breaking
at last the silence which had reigned between them.

"I am," he admitted.

"It seems unnatural to you, I suppose?"

"Entirely."

"You still believe all that I told you?"

"I must."

She looked at the door and raised her head a little, as though
either listening or adjudging the time before her husband would
return.  Then she glanced across at him once more.

"Hatred," she said, "does not always drive away.  Sometimes it
attracts.  Sometimes the person who hates can scarcely bear the
other out of his sight.  That is where hate and love are somewhat
alike."

The room was warm but Francis was conscious of shivering.  She
raised her finger warningly.  It seemed typical of the woman,
somehow, that the message could not be conveyed by any glance or
gesture.

"He is coming," she whispered.

Oliver Hilditch reappeared, carrying cigars wrapped in gold foil
which he had brought with him from Cuba, the tobacco of which was
a revelation to his guest.  The two men smoked and sipped their
coffee and brandy.  The woman sat with half-closed eyes.  It was
obvious that Hilditch was still in the mood for speech.

"I will tell you, Mr. Ledsam," he said, "why I am so happy to
have you here this evening.  In the first place, I desire to
tender you once more my thanks for your very brilliant efforts on
my behalf.  The very fact that I am able to offer you hospitality
at all is without a doubt due to these."

"I only did what I was paid to do," Francis insisted, a little
harshly.  "You must remember that these things come in the day's
work with us."

His host nodded.

"Naturally," he murmured.  "There was another reason, too, why I
was anxious to meet you, Mr. Ledsam," he continued.  "You have
gathered already that I am something of a crank.  I have a
profound detestation of all sentimentality and affected morals.
It is a relief to me to come into contact with a man who is free
from that bourgeois incubus to modern enterprise--a conscience."

"Is that your estimate of me?" Francis asked.

"Why not?  You practise your profession in the criminal courts,
do you not?"

"That is well-known," was the brief reply.

"What measure of conscience can a man have," Oliver Hilditch
argued blandly, "who pleads for the innocent and guilty alike
with the same simulated fervour?  Confess, now, Mr. Ledsam--there
is no object in being hypocritical in this matter--have you not
often pleaded for the guilty as though you believed them
innocent?"

"That has sometimes been my duty," Francis acknowledged.

Hilditch laughed scornfully.

"It is all part of the great hypocrisy of society," he proclaimed.
"You have an extra glass of champagne for dinner at night and are
congratulated by your friends because you have helped some poor
devil to cheat the law, while all the time you know perfectly
well, and so do your high-minded friends, that your whole
attitude during those two hours of eloquence has been a lie.
That is what first attracted me to you, Mr. Ledsam."

"I am sorry to hear it," Francis commented coldly.  "The ethics
of my profession--"

His host stopped him with a little wave of the hand.

"Spare me that," he begged.  "While we are on the subject,
though, I have a question to ask you.  My lawyer told me,
directly after he had briefed you, that, although it would make
no real difference to your pleading, it would be just as well for
me to keep up my bluff of being innocent, even in private
conversation with you.  Why was that?"

"For the very obvious reason," Francis told him, "that we are not
all such rogues and vagabonds as you seem to think.  There is
more satisfaction to me, at any rate, in saving an innocent man's
life than a guilty one's."

Hilditch laughed as though amused.

"Come," he threatened, "I am going to be ill-natured.  You have
shown signs of smugness, a quality which I detest.  I am going to
rob you of some part of your self-satisfaction.  Of course I
killed Jordan.  I killed him in the very chair in which you are
now sitting."

There was a moment's intense silence.  The woman was still
fanning herself lazily.  Francis leaned forward in his place.

"I do not wish to hear this!" he exclaimed harshly.

"Don't be foolish," his host replied, rising to his feet and
strolling across the room.  "You know the whole trouble of the
prosecution.  They couldn't discover the weapon, or anything like
it, with which the deed was done.  Now I'll show you something
ingenious."

Francis followed the other's movements with fascinated eyes.  The
woman scarcely turned her head.  Hilditch paused at the further
end of the room, where there were a couple of gun cases, some
fishing rods and a bag, of golf clubs.  From the latter he
extracted a very ordinary-looking putter, and with it in his
hands strolled back to them.

"Do you play golf, Ledsam?" he asked.  "What do you think of
that?"

Francis took the putter into his hand.  It was a very ordinary
club, which had apparently seen a good deal of service, so much,
indeed, that the leather wrapping at the top was commencing to
unroll.  The maker's name was on the back of the blade, also the
name of the professional from whom it had been purchased.
Francis swung the implement mechanically with his wrists.

"There seems to be nothing extraordinary about the club," he
pronounced.  "It is very much like a cleek I putt with myself."

"Yet it contains a secret which would most certainly have hanged
me," Oliver Hilditch declared pleasantly.  "See!"

He held the shaft firmly in one hand and bent the blade away from
it.  In a moment or two it yielded and he commenced to unscrew
it.  A little exclamation escaped from Francis' lips.  The woman
looked on with tired eyes.

"The join in the steel," Hilditch pointed out, "is so fine as to
be undistinguishable by the naked eye.  Yet when the blade comes
off, like this, you see that although the weight is absolutely
adjusted, the inside is hollow.  The dagger itself is encased in
this cotton wool to avoid any rattling.  I put it away in rather
a hurry the last time I used it, and as you see I forgot to clean
it."

Francis staggered back and gripped at the mantelpiece.  His eyes
were filled with horror.  Very slowly, and with the air of one
engaged upon some interesting task, Oliver Hilditch had removed
the blood-stained sheath of cotton wool from around the thin
blade of a marvellous-looking stiletto, on which was also a long
stain of encrusted blood.

"There is a handle," he went on, "which is perhaps the most
ingenious thing of all.  You touch a spring here, and behold!"

He pressed down two tiny supports which opened upon hinges about
four inches from the top of the handle.  There was now a complete
hilt.

"With this little weapon," he explained, "the point is so
sharpened and the steel so wonderful that it is not necessary to
stab.  It has the perfection of a surgical instrument.  You have
only to lean it against a certain point in a man's anatomy, lunge
ever so little and the whole thing is done.  Come here, Mr.
Ledsam, and I will show you the exact spot."

Francis made no movement.  His eyes were fixed upon the weapon.

"If I had only known!" he muttered.

"My dear fellow, if you had," the other protested soothingly,
"you know perfectly well that it would not have made the
slightest difference.  Perhaps that little break in your voice
would not have come quite so naturally, the little sweep of your
arm towards me, the man whom a moment's thoughtlessness might
sweep into Eternity, would have been a little stiffer, but what
matter?  You would still have done your best and you would
probably still have succeeded.  You don't care about trifling
with Eternity, eh?  Very well, I will find the place for you."

Hilditch's fingers strayed along his shirt-front until he found
a certain spot.  Then he leaned the dagger against it, his
forefinger and second finger pressed against the hilt.  His eyes
were fixed upon his guest's.  He seemed genuinely interested.
Francis, glancing away for a moment, was suddenly conscious of
a new horror.  The woman had leaned a little forward in her
easy-chair until she had attained almost a crouching position.
Her eyes seemed to be measuring the distance from where she sat
to that quivering thread of steel.

"You see, Ledsam," his host went on, "that point driven now at
that angle would go clean through the vital part of my heart.
And it needs no force, either--just the slow pressure of these
two fingers.  What did you say, Margaret?" he enquired, breaking
off abruptly.

The woman was seated upon the very edge of her chair, her eyes
rivetted upon the dagger.  There was no change in her face, not a
tremor in her tone.

"I said nothing," she replied.  "I did not speak at all.  I was
just watching."

Hilditch turned back to his guest.

"These two fingers," he repeated, "and a flick of the wrist
--very little more than would be necessary for a thirty yard putt
right across the green."

Francis had recovered himself, had found his bearings to a
certain extent.

"I am sorry that you have told me this, Mr. Hilditch," he said, a
little stiffly.

"Why?" was the puzzled reply.  "I thought you would be
interested."

"I am interested to this extent," Francis declared, "I shall
accept no more cases such as yours unless I am convinced of my
client's innocence.  I look upon your confession to me as being
in the worst possible taste, and I regret very much my efforts on
your behalf."

The woman was listening intently.  Hilditch's expression was one
of cynical wonder.  Francis rose to his feet and moved across to
his hostess.

"Mrs. Hilditch," he said, "will you allow me to make my
apologies?  Your husband and I have arrived at an understanding
--or perhaps I should say a misunderstanding--which renders the
acceptance of any further hospitality on my part impossible."

She held out the tips of her fingers.

"I had no idea," she observed, with gentle sarcasm, "that you
barristers were such purists morally.  I thought you were rather
proud of being the last hope of the criminal classes."

"Madam," Francis replied, "I am not proud of having saved the
life of a self-confessed murderer, even though that man may be
your husband."

Hilditch was laughing softly to himself as he escorted his
departing guest to the door.

"You have a quaint sense of humour," Francis remarked.

"Forgive me," Oliver Hilditch begged, "but your last few words
rather appealed to me.  You must be a person of very scanty
perceptions if you could spend the evening here and not
understand that my death is the one thing in the world which
would make my wife happy."

Francis walked home with these last words ringing in his ears.
They seemed with him even in that brief period of troubled sleep
which came to him when he had regained his rooms and turned in.
They were there in the middle of the night when he was awakened,
shivering, by the shrill summons of his telephone bell.  He stood
quaking before the instrument in his pajamas.  It was the voice
which, by reason of some ghastly premonition, he had dreaded to
hear--level, composed, emotionless.

"Mr. Ledsam?" she enquired.

"I am Francis Ledsam," he assented.  "Who wants me?"

"It is Margaret Hilditch speaking," she announced.  "I felt that
I must ring up and tell you of a very strange thing which
happened after you left this evening."

"Go on," he begged hoarsely.

"After you left," she went on, "my husband persisted in playing
with that curious dagger.  He laid it against his heart, and
seated himself in the chair which Mr. Jordan had occupied, in the
same attitude.  It was what he called a reconstruction.  While he
was holding it there, I think that he must have had a fit, or it
may have been remorse, we shall never know.  He called out and I
hurried across the room to him.  I tried to snatch the dagger
away--I did so, in fact--but I must have been too late.  He had
already applied that slight movement of the fingers which was
necessary.  The doctor has just left.  He says that death must
have been instantaneous."

"But this is horrible!" Francis cried out into the well of
darkness.

"A person is on the way from Scotland Yard," the voice continued,
without change or tremor.  "When he has satisfied himself, I am
going to bed.  He is here now.  Good-night!"

Francis tried to speak again but his words beat against a wall of
silence.  He sat upon the edge of the bed, shivering.  In that
moment of agony he seemed to hear again the echo of Oliver
Hilditch's mocking words:

"My death is the one thing in the world which would make my wife
happy!"




CHAPTER VII


There was a good deal of speculation at the Sheridan Club, of
which he was a popular and much envied member, as to the cause
for the complete disappearance from their midst of Francis Ledsam
since the culmination of the Hilditch tragedy.

"Sent back four topping briefs, to my knowledge, last week," one
of the legal luminaries of the place announced to a little group
of friends and fellow-members over a before-dinner cocktail.

"Griggs offered him the defence of William Bull, the Chippenham
murderer, and he refused it," another remarked.  "Griggs wrote
him personally, and the reply came from the Brancaster Golf Club!
It isn't like Ledsam to be taking golfing holidays in the middle
of the session."

"There's nothing wrong with Ledsam," declared a gruff voice from
the corner.  "And don't gossip, you fellows, at the top of your
voices like a lot of old women.  He'll be calling here for me in
a moment or two."

They all looked around.  Andrew Wilmore rose slowly to his feet
and emerged from behind the sheets of an evening paper.  He laid
his hand upon the shoulder of a friend, and glanced towards the
door.

"Ledsam's had a touch of nerves," he confided.  "There's been
nothing else the matter with him.  We've been down at the Dormy
House at Brancaster and he's as right as a trivet now.  That
Hilditch affair did him in completely."

"I don't see why," one of the bystanders observed.  "He got
Hilditch off all right.  One of the finest addresses to a jury I
ever heard."

"That's just the point," Wilmore explained "You see, Ledsam had
no idea that Hilditch was really guilty, and for two hours that
afternoon he literally fought for his life, and in the end
wrested a verdict from the jury, against the judge's summing up,
by sheer magnetism or eloquence or whatever you fellows like to
call it.  The very night after, Hilditch confesses his guilt and
commits suicide."

"I still don't see where Ledsam's worry comes in," the legal
luminary remarked.  "The fact that the man was guilty is rather a
feather in the cap of his counsel.  Shows how jolly good his
pleading must have been."

"Just so," Wilmore agreed, "but Ledsam, as you know, is a very
conscientious sort of fellow, and very sensitive, too.  The whole
thing was a shock to him."

"It must have been a queer experience," a novelist remarked from
the outskirts of the group, "to dine with a man whose life you
have juggled away from the law, and then have him explain his
crime to you, and the exact manner of its accomplishment.  Seems
to bring one amongst the goats, somehow."

"Bit of a shock, no doubt," the lawyer assented, "but I still
don't understand Ledsam's sending back all his briefs.  He's not
going to chuck the profession, is he?"

"Not by any means," Wilmore declared.  "I think he has an idea,
though, that he doesn't want to accept any briefs unless he is
convinced that the person whom he has to represent is innocent,
and lawyers don't like that sort of thing, you know.  You can't
pick and choose, even when you have Leadsam's gifts."

"The fact of it is," the novelist commented, "Francis Ledsam
isn't callous enough to be associated with you money-grubbing
dispensers of the law.  He'd be all right as Public Prosecutor, a
sort of Sir Galahad waving the banner of virtue, but he hates to
stuff his pockets at the expense of the criminal classes."

"Who the mischief are the criminal classes?" a police court
magistrate demanded.  "Personally, I call war profiteering
criminal, I call a good many Stock Exchange deals criminal, and,"
he added, turning to a member of the committee who was hovering
in the background, "I call it criminal to expect us to drink
French vermouth like this."

"There is another point of view," the latter retorted.  "I call
it a crime to expect a body of intelligent men to administer
without emolument to the greed of such a crowd of rotters.
You'll get the right stuff next week."

The hall-porter approached and addressed Wilmore.

"Mr. Ledsam is outside in a taxi, sir," he announced.

"Outside in a taxi?" the lawyer repeated.  "Why on earth can't he
come in?"

"I never heard such rot," another declared.  "Let's go and rope
him in."

"Mr. Ledsam desired me to say, sir," the hall porter continued,
"to any of his friends who might be here, that he will be in to
lunch to-morrow."

"Leave him to me till then," Wilmore begged.  "He'll be all right
directly.  He's simply altering his bearings and taking his time
about it.  If he's promised to lunch here to-morrow, he will.
He's as near as possible through the wood.  Coming up in the
train, he suggested a little conversation to-night and afterwards
the normal life.  He means it, too.  There's nothing neurotic
about Ledsam."

The magistrate nodded.

"Run along, then, my merry Andrew," he said, "but see that Ledsam
keeps his word about to-morrow."


Andrew Wilmore plunged boldly into the forbidden subject later on
that evening, as the two men sat side by side at one of the wall
tables in Soto's famous club restaurant.  They had consumed an
excellent dinner.  An empty champagne bottle had just been
removed, double liqueur brandies had taken its place.  Francis,
with an air of complete and even exuberant humanity, had lit a
huge cigar.  The moment seemed propitious.

"Francis," his friend began, "they say at the club that you
refused to be briefed in the Chippenham affair."

"Quite true," was the calm reply.  "I told Griggs that I wouldn't
have anything to do with it."

Wilmore knew then that all was well.  Francis' old air of
strength and decision had returned.  His voice was firm, his eyes
were clear and bright.  His manner seemed even to invite
questioning.

"I think I know why," Wilmore said, "but I should like you to
tell me in your own words."

Francis glanced around as though to be sure that they were not
overheard.

"Because," he replied, dropping his voice a little but still
speaking with great distinctness, "William Bull is a cunning and
dangerous criminal whom I should prefer to see hanged."

"You know that?"

"I know that."

"It would be a great achievement to get him off," Wilmore
persisted.  "The evidence is very weak in places."

"I believe that I could get him off," was the confident reply.
"That is why I will not touch the brief.  I think," Francis
continued, "that I have already conveyed it to you indirectly,
but here you are in plain words, Andrew.  I have made up my mind
that I will defend no man in future unless I am convinced of his
innocence."

"That means--"

"It means practically the end of my career at the bar," Francis
admitted.  "I realise that absolutely: Fortunately, as you know,
I am not dependent upon my earnings, and I have had a wonderful
ten years."

"This is all because of the Hilditch affair, I suppose?"

"Entirely."

Wilmore was still a little puzzled.

"You seem to imagine that you have something on your conscience
as regards that business," he said boldly.

"I have," was the calm reply.

"Come," Wilmore protested, "I don't quite follow your line of
thought.  Granted that Hilditch was a desperate criminal whom by
the exercise of your special gifts you saved from the law, surely
his tragic death balanced the account between you and Society?"

"It might have done," Francis admitted, "if he had really
committed suicide."

Wilmore was genuinely startled.  He looked at his companion
curiously.

"What the devil do you mean, old chap?" he demanded.  "Your own
evidence at the inquest was practically conclusive as to that."

Francis glanced around him with apparent indifference but in
reality with keen and stealthy care.  On their right was a glass
division, through which the sound of their voices could not
possibly penetrate.  On their left was an empty space, and a
table beyond was occupied by a well-known cinema magnate engaged
in testing the attractions in daily life of a would-be film star.
Nevertheless, Francis' voice was scarcely raised above a whisper.

"My evidence at the coroner's inquest," he confided, "was a
subtly concocted tissue of lies.  I committed perjury freely.
That is the real reason why I've been a little on the nervy side
lately, and why I took these few months out of harness."

"Good God!" Wilmore exclaimed, setting down untasted the glass of
brandy which he had just raised to his lips.

"I want to finish this matter up," Francis continued calmly, "by
making a clean breast of it to you, because from to-night I am
starting afresh, with new interests in my life, what will
practically amount to a new career.  That is why I preferred not
to dine at the club to-night, although I am looking forward to
seeing them all again.  I wanted instead to have this
conversation with you.  I lied at the inquest when I said that
the relations between Oliver Hilditch and his wife that night
seemed perfectly normal.  I lied when I said that I knew of no
cause for ill-will between them.  I lied when I said that I left
them on friendly terms.  I lied when I said that Oliver Hilditch
seemed depressed and nervous.  I lied when I said that he
expressed the deepest remorse for what he had done.  There was
every indication that night, of the hate which I happen to know
existed between the woman and the man.  I have not the faintest
doubt in my mind but that she murdered him.  In my judgment, she
was perfectly justified in doing so."

There followed a brief but enforced silence as some late arrivals
passed their table.  The room was well-ventilated but Andrew
Wilmore felt suddenly hot and choking.  A woman, one of the
little group of newcomers, glanced towards Francis curiously.

"Francis Ledsam, the criminal barrister," her companion
whispered,--"the man who got Oliver Hilditch off.  The man with
him is Andrew Wilmore, the novelist.  Discussing a case, I
expect."




CHAPTER VIII


The little party of late diners passed on their way to the
further end of the room, leaving a wave of artificiality behind,
or was it, Andrew Wilmore wondered, in a moment of half-dazed
speculation, that it was they and the rest of the gay company who
represented the real things, and he and his companion who were
playing a sombre part in some unreal and gloomier world.
Francis' voice, however, when he recommenced his diatribe, was
calm and matter-of-fact enough.

"You see," he continued, argumentatively, "I was morally and
actually responsible for the man's being brought back into
Society.  And far worse than that, I was responsible for his
being thrust back again upon his wife.  Ergo, I was also
responsible for what she did that night.  The matter seems as
plain as a pikestaff to me.  I did what I could to atone, rightly
or wrongly it doesn't matter, because it is over and done with.
There you are, old fellow, now you know what's been making me
nervy.  I've committed wholesale perjury, but I acted according
to my conscience and I think according to justice.  The thing has
worried me, I admit, but it has passed, and I'm glad it's off my
chest.  One more liqueur, Andrew, and if you want to we'll talk
about my plans for the future."

The brandy was brought.  Wilmore studied his friend curiously,
not without some relief.  Francis had lost the harassed and
nervous appearance upon which his club friends had commented,
which had been noticeable, even, to a diminishing extent, upon
the golf course at Brancaster.  He was alert and eager.  He had
the air of a man upon the threshold of some enterprise dear to
his heart.

"I have been through a queer experience," Francis continued
presently, as he sipped his second liqueur.  "Not only had I
rather less than twelve hours to make up my mind whether I should
commit a serious offence against the law, but a sensation which I
always hoped that I might experience, has come to me in what I
suppose I must call most unfortunate fashion."

"The woman?" Wilmore ventured.

Francis assented gloomily.  There was a moment's silence.
Wilmore, the metaphysician, saw then a strange thing.  He saw a
light steal across his friend's stern face.  He saw his eyes for
a moment soften, the hard mouth relax, something incredible,
transforming, shine, as it were, out of the man's soul in that
moment of self-revelation.  It was gone like the momentary
passing of a strange gleam of sunshine across a leaden sea, but
those few seconds were sufficient.  Wilmore knew well enough what
had happened.

"Oliver Hilditch's wife," Francis went on, after a few minutes'
pause, "presents an enigma which at present I cannot hope to
solve.  The fact that she received her husband back again,
knowing what he was and what he was capable of, is inexplicable
to me.  The woman herself is a mystery.  I do not know what lies
behind her extraordinary immobility.  Feeling she must have, and
courage, or she would never have dared to have ridded herself of
the scourge of her life.  But beyond that my judgment tells me
nothing.  I only know that sooner or later I shall seek her out.
I shall discover all that I want to know, one way or the other.
It may be for happiness--it may be the end of the things that
count."

"I guessed this," Wilmore admitted, with a little shiver which he
was wholly unable to repress.

Francis nodded.

"Then keep it to yourself, my dear fellow," he begged, "like
everything else I am telling you tonight.  I have come out of my
experience changed in many ways," he continued, "but, leaving out
that one secret chapter, this is the dominant factor which looms
up before me.  I bring into life a new aversion, almost a
passion, Andrew, born in a tea-shop in the city, and ministered
to by all that has happened since.  I have lost that sort of
indifference which my profession engenders towards crime.  I am
at war with the criminal, sometimes, I hope, in the Courts of
Justice, but forever out of them.  I am no longer indifferent as
to whether men do good or evil so long as they do not cross my
path.  I am a hunter of sin.  I am out to destroy.  There's a
touch of melodrama in this for you, Andrew," he concluded, with a
little laugh, "but, my God, I'm in earnest!"

"What does this mean so far as regards the routine of your daily
life?" Wilmore asked curiously.

"Well, it brings us to the point we discussed down at
Brancaster," Francis replied.  "It will affect my work to this
extent.  I shall not accept any brief unless, after reading the
evidence, I feel convinced that the accused is innocent."

"That's all very well," Wilmore observed, "but you know what it
will mean, don't you?  Lawyers aren't likely to single you out
for a brief without ever feeling sure whether you will accept it
or not."

"That doesn't worry me," Francis declared.  "I don't need the
fees, fortunately, and I can always pick up enough work to keep
me going by attending Sessions.  One thing I can promise you--I
certainly shall not sit in my rooms and wait for things to
happen.  Mine is a militant spirit and it needs the outlet of
action."

"Action, yes, but how?" Wilmore queried.  "You can't be always
hanging about the courts, waiting for the chance of defending
some poor devil who's been wrongfully accused--there aren't
enough of them, for one thing.  On the other hand, you can't walk
down Regent Street, brandishing a two-edged sword and hunting for
pickpockets."

Francis smiled.

"Nothing so flamboyant, I can assure you, Andrew," he replied;
"nor shall I play the amateur detective with his mouth open for
mysteries.  But listen," he went on earnestly.  "I've had some
experience, as you know, and, notwithstanding the Oliver
Hilditch's of the world, I can generally tell a criminal when I
meet him face to face.  There are plenty of them about, too,
Andrew--as many in this place as any other.  I am not going to be
content with a negative position as regards evildoers.  I am
going to set my heel on as many of the human vermin of this city
as I can find."

"A laudable, a most exhilarating and delightful pursuit!  `human
vermin,' too, is excellent.  It opens up a new and fascinating
vista for the modern sportsman.  My congratulations!"

It was an interruption of peculiar and wonderful significance,
but Francis did not for the moment appreciate the fact.  Turning
his head, he simply saw a complete stranger seated unaccountably
at the next table, who had butted into a private conversation and
whose tone of gentle sarcasm, therefore, was the more offensive.

"Who the devil are you, sir," he demanded, "and where did you
come from?"

The newcomer showed no resentment at Francis' little outburst.
He simply smiled with deprecating amiability--a tall, spare man,
with lean, hard face, complexion almost unnaturally white; black
hair, plentifully besprinkled with grey; a thin, cynical mouth,
notwithstanding its distinctly humourous curve, and keen, almost
brilliant dark eyes.  He was dressed in ordinary dinner garb; his
linen and jewellery was indeed in the best possible taste.
Francis, at his second glance, was troubled with a vague sense of
familiarity.

"Let me answer your last question first, sir," the intruder
begged.  "I was seated alone, several tables away, when the
couple next to you went out, and having had pointed out to me the
other evening at Claridge's Hotel, and knowing well by repute,
the great barrister, Mr. Francis Ledsam, and his friend the
world-famed novelist, Mr. Andrew Wilmore, I--er--unobtrusively
made my way, half a yard at a time, in your direction--and here I
am.  I came stealthily, you may object?  Without a doubt.  If I
had come in any other fashion, I should have disturbed a
conversation in which I was much interested."

"Could you find it convenient," Francis asked, with icy
politeness, "to return to your own table, stealthily or not, as
you choose?"

The newcomer showed no signs of moving.

"In after years," he declared, "you would be the first to regret
the fact if I did so.  This is a momentous meeting.  It gives me
an opportunity of expressing my deep gratitude to you, Mr.
Ledsam, for the wonderful evidence you tendered at the inquest
upon the body of my son-in-law, Oliver Hilditch."

Francis turned in his place and looked steadily at this unsought-for
companion, learning nothing, however, from the half-mocking smile
and imperturbable expression.

"Your son-in-law?" he repeated.  "Do you mean to say that you are
the father of--of Oliver Hilditch's wife?"

"Widow," the other corrected gently.  "I have that honour.  You
will understand, therefore, that I feel myself on this, the first
opportunity, compelled to tender my sincere thanks for evidence
so chivalrously offered, so flawlessly truthful."

Francis was a man accustomed to self-control, but he clenched his
hands so that his finger nails dug into his flesh.  He was filled
with an insane and unreasoning resentment against this man whose
words were biting into his conscience.  Nevertheless, he kept his
tone level.

"I do not desire your gratitude," he said, "nor, if you will
permit me to say so, your further acquaintance."

The stranger shook his head regretfully.

"You are wrong," he protested.  "We were bound, in any case, to
know one another.  Shall I tell you why?  You have just declared
yourself anxious to set your heel upon the criminals of the
world.  I have the distinction of being perhaps the most famous
patron of that maligned class now living--and my neck is at your
service."

"You appear to me," Francis said suavely, "to be a buffoon."

It might have been fancy, but Francis could have sworn that he
saw the glitter of a sovereign malevolence in the other's dark
eyes.  If so, it was but a passing weakness, for a moment later
the half good-natured, half cynical smile was back again upon the
man's lips.

"If so, I am at least a buffoon of parts," was the prompt
rejoinder.  "I will, if you choose, prove myself."

There was a moment's silence.  Wilmore was leaning forward in his
place, studying the newcomer earnestly.  An impatient invective
was somehow stifled upon Francis' lips.

"Within a few yards of this place, sometime before the closing
hour to-night," the intruder continued, earnestly yet with a
curious absence of any human quality in his hard tone, "there
will be a disturbance, and probably what you would call a crime
will be committed.  Will you use your vaunted gifts to hunt down
the desperate criminal, and, in your own picturesque phraseology,
set your heel upon his neck?  Success may bring you fame, and the
trail may lead--well, who knows where?"

Afterwards, both Francis and Andrew Wilmore marvelled at
themselves, unable at any time to find any reasonable explanation
of their conduct, for they answered this man neither with
ridicule, rudeness nor civility.  They simply stared at him,
impressed with the convincing arrogance of his challenge and
unable to find words of reply.  They received his mocking
farewell without any form of reciprocation or sign of resentment.
They watched him leave the room, a dignified, distinguished
figure, sped on his way with marks of the deepest respect by
waiters, maitres d'hotels and even the manager himself.  They
behaved, indeed, as they both admitted afterwards, like a couple
of moonstruck idiots.  When he had finally disappeared, however,
they looked at one another and the spell was broken.

"Well, I'm damned!" Francis exclaimed.  "Soto, come here at
once."

The manager hastened smilingly to their table.

"Soto," Francis invoked, "tell us quickly--tell us the name of
the gentleman who has just gone out, and who he is?"

Soto was amazed.

"You don't know Sir Timothy Brast, sir?" he exclaimed.  "Why, he
is supposed to be one of the richest men in the world!  He spends
money like water.  They say that when he is in England, his place
down the river alone costs a thousand pounds a week.  When he
gives a party here, we can find nothing good enough.  He is our
most generous client."

"Sir Timothy Brast," Wilmore repeated.  "Yes, I have heard of
him."

"Why, everybody knows Sir Timothy," Soto went on eloquently.  "He
is the greatest living patron of boxing.  He found the money for
the last international fight."

"Does he often come in alone like this?" Francis asked curiously.

"Either alone," Soto replied, "or with a very large party.  He
entertains magnificently."

"I've seen his name in the paper in connection with something or
other, during the last few weeks," Wilmore remarked reflectively.

"Probably about two months ago, sir," Soto suggested.  "He gave a
donation of ten thousand pounds to the Society for the Prevention
of Cruelty to Animals, and they made him a Vice President.... In
one moment, sir."

The manager hurried away to receive a newly-arrived guest.
Francis and his friend exchanged a wondering glance.

"Father of Oliver Hilditch's wife," Wilmore observed, "the most
munificent patron of boxing in the world, Vice President of
the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and
self-confessed arch-criminal!  He pulled our legs pretty well!"

"I suppose so," Francis assented absently.

Wilmore glanced at his watch.

"What about moving on somewhere?" he suggested.  "We might go
into the Alhambra for half-an-hour, if you like.  The last act of
the show is the best."

Francis shook his head.

"We've got to see this thing out," he replied.  "Have you
forgotten that our friend promised us a sensation before we
left?"

Wilmore began to laugh a little derisively.  Then, suddenly aware
of some lack of sympathy between himself and his friend, he broke
off and glanced curiously at the latter.

"You're not taking him seriously, are you?" he enquired.

Francis nodded.

"Certainly I am," he confessed.

"You don't believe that he was getting at us?"

"Not for a moment."

"You believe that something is going to happen here in this
place, or quite close?"

"I am convinced of it," was the calm reply.

Wilmore was silent.  For a moment he was troubled with his old
fears as to his friend's condition.  A glance, however, at
Francis' set face and equable, watchful air, reassured him.

"We must see the thing through, of course, then," he assented.
"Let us see if we can spot the actors in the coming drama."




CHAPTER IX


It happened that the two men, waiting in the vestibule of the
restaurant for Francis' car to crawl up to the entrance through
the fog which had unexpectedly rolled up, heard the slight
altercation which was afterwards referred to as preceding the
tragedy.  The two young people concerned were standing only a few
feet away, the girl pretty, a little peevish, an ordinary type;
her companion, whose boyish features were marred with dissipation,
a very passable example of the young man about town going a little
beyond his tether.

"It's no good standing here, Victor!" the girl exclaimed,
frowning.  "The commissionaire's been gone ages already, and
there are two others before us for taxis."

"We can't walk," her escort replied gloomily.  "It's a foul
night.  Nothing to do but wait, what?  Let's go back and have
another drink."

The girl stamped her satin-shod foot impatiently.

"Don't be silly," she expostulated.  "You know I promised Clara
we'd be there early."

"All very well," the young man grumbled, "but what can we do?  We
shall have to wait our turn."

"Why can't you slip out and look for a taxi yourself?" she
suggested.  "Do, Victor," she added, squeezing his arm.  "You're
so clever at picking them up."

He made a little grimace, but lit a cigarette and turned up his
coat collar.

"I'll do my best," he promised.  "Don't go on without me."

"Try up towards Charing Cross Road, not the other way," she
advised earnestly.

"Right-oh!" he replied, which illuminative form of assent, a word
spoken as he plunged unwillingly into the thick obscurity on the
other side of the revolving doors, was probably the last he ever
uttered on earth.

Left alone, the girl began to shiver, as though suddenly cold.
She turned around and glanced hurriedly back into the restaurant.
At that moment she met the steady, questioning scrutiny of
Francis' eyes.  She stood as though transfixed.  Then came the
sound which every one talked of for months afterwards, the sound
which no one who heard it ever forgot--the death cry of Victor
Bidlake, followed a second afterwards by a muffled report.  A
strain of frenzied surprise seemed mingled with the horror.
Afterwards, silence.

There was the sound of some commotion outside, the sound of
hurried footsteps and agitated voices.  Then a terrible little
procession appeared.  Something--it seemed to be a shapeless heap
of clothes--was carried in and laid upon the floor, in the little
space between the revolving doors and the inner entrance.  Two
blue-liveried attendants kept back the horrified but curious
crowd.  Francis, vaguely recognised as being somehow or other
connected with the law, was one of the few people allowed to
remain whilst a doctor, fetched out from the dancing-room,
kneeled over the prostrate form.  He felt that he knew beforehand
the horrible verdict which the latter whispered in his ear after
his brief examination.

"Quite dead!  A ghastly business!"

Francis gazed at the hole in the shirt-front, disfigured also by
a scorching stain.

"A bullet?" he asked.

The doctor nodded.

"Fired within a foot of the poor fellow's heart," he whispered.
"The murderer wasn't taking any chances, whoever he was."

"Have the police been sent for?"

The head-porter stepped forward.

"There was a policeman within a few yards of the spot, sir," he
replied.  "He's gone down to keep every one away from the place
where we found the body.  We've telephoned to Scotland Yard for
an inspector."

The doctor rose to his feet.

"Nothing more can be done," he pronounced.  "Keep the people out
of here whilst I go and fetch my hat and coat.  Afterwards, I'll
take the body to the mortuary when the ambulance arrives."

An attendant pushed his way through the crowd of people on the
inner side of the door.

"Miss Daisy Hyslop, young lady who was with Mr. Bidlake, has just
fainted in the ladies' room, sir," he announced.  "Could you
come?"

"I'll be there immediately," the doctor promised.

The rest of the proceedings followed a normal course.  The police
arrived, took various notes, the ambulance followed a little
later, the body was removed, and the little crowd of guests,
still infected with a sort of awed excitement, were allowed to
take their leave.  Francis and Wilmore drove almost in silence to
the former's rooms in Clarges Street.

"Come up and have a drink, Andrew," Francis invited.

"I need it," was the half-choked response.

Francis led the way in silence up the two flights of stairs into
his sitting-room, mixed whiskies and sodas from the decanter and
syphon which stood upon the sideboard, and motioned his friend to
an easy-chair.  Then he gave form to the thought which had been
haunting them both.

"What about our friend Sir Timothy Brast?" he enquired.  "Do you
believe now that he was pulling our legs?"

Wilmore dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief.  It was a
chilly evening, but there were drops of perspiration still
standing there.

"Francis," he confessed, "it's horrible!  I don't think realism
like this attracts me.  It's horrible!  What are we going to do?"

"Nothing for the present," was the brief reply.  "If we were to
tell our story, we should only be laughed at.  What there is to
be done falls to my lot."

"Had the police anything to say about it?" Wilmore asked.

"Only a few words," Francis replied.  "Shopland has it in hand.
A good man but unimaginative.  I've come across him in one or two
cases lately.  You'll find a little bit like this in the papers
to-morrow: 'The murder is believed to have been committed by one
of the gang of desperadoes who have infested the west-end during
the last few months.'  You remember the assault in the Albany
Court Yard, and the sandbagging in Shepherd Market only last
week?"

"That seems to let Sir Timothy out," Wilmore remarked.

"There are many motives for crime besides robbery," Francis
declared.  "Don't be afraid, Andrew, that I am going to turn
amateur detective and make the unravelment of this case all the
more difficult for Scotland Yard.  If I interfere, it will be on
a certainty.  Andrew, don't think I'm mad but I've taken up the
challenge our great philanthropist flung at me to-night.  I've
very little interest in who killed this boy Victor Bidlake, or
why, but I'm convinced of one thing--Brast knew about it, and if
he is posing as a patron of crime on a great scale, sooner or
later I shall get him.  He may think himself safe, and he may
have the courage of Beelzebub--he seems rather that type--but if
my presentiment about him--comes true, his number's up.  I can
almost divine the meaning of his breaking in upon our
conversation to-night.  He needs an enemy--he is thirsting for
danger.  He has found it!"

Wilmore filled his pipe thoughtfully.  At the first whiff of
tobacco he began to feel more normal.

"After all, Francis," he said, "aren't we a little overstrung
to-night?  Sir Timothy Brast is no adventurer.  He is a prince
in the city, a persona grata wherever he chooses to go.  He isn't
a hanger-on in Society.  He isn't even dependent upon Bohemia for
his entertainment.  You can't seriously imagine that a man with
his possessions is likely to risk his life and liberty in
becoming the inspiration of a band of cutthroats?"

Francis smiled.  He, too, had lit his pipe and had thrown himself
into his favourite chair.  He smiled confidently across at his
friend.

"A millionaire with brains," he argued, "is just the one person
in the world likely to weary of all ordinary forms of diversion.
I begin to remember things about him already.  Haven't you heard
about his wonderful parties down at The Walled House?"

Wilmore struck the table by his side with his clenched fist.

"By George, that's it!" he exclaimed.  "Who hasn't!"

"I remember Baker talking about one last year," Francis
continued, "never any details, but all kinds of mysterious hints
--a sort of mixture between a Roman orgy and a chapter from the
'Arabian Nights'--singers from Petrograd, dancers from Africa and
fighting men from Chicago."

"The fellow's magnificent, at any rate," Wilmore remarked.

His host smoked furiously for a moment.

"That's the worst of these multi-millionaires," he declared.
"They think they can rule the world, traffic in human souls, buy
morals, mock at the law.  We shall see!"

"Do you know the thing that I found most interesting about him?"
Wilmore asked.

"His black opals," the other suggested.  "You're by the way of
being a collector, aren't you?"

Wilmore shook his head.

"The fact that he is the father of Oliver Hilditch's widow."

Francis sat quite still for a moment.  There was a complete
change in his expression.  He looked like a man who has received
a shock.

"I forgot that," he muttered.




CHAPTER X


Francis met Shopland one morning about a week later, on his way
from Clarges Street to his chambers in the Temple.  The detective
raised his hat and would have passed on, but Francis accosted
him.

"Any progress, Mr. Shopland?" he enquired.

The detective fingered his small, sandy moustache.  He was an
insignificant-looking little man, undersized, with thin frame and
watery eyes.  His mouth, however, was hard, and there were some
tell-tale little lines at its corners.

"None whatever, I am sorry to say, Mr. Ledsam," he admitted.  "At
present we are quite in the dark."

"You found the weapon, I hear?"

Shopland nodded.

"It was just an ordinary service revolver, dating from the time
of the war, exactly like a hundred thousand others.  The
enquiries we were able to make from it came to nothing."

"Where was it picked up?"

"In the middle of the waste plot of ground next to Soto's.  The
murderer evidently threw it there the moment he had discharged
it.  He must have been wearing rubber-soled shoes, for not a soul
heard him go."

Francis nodded thoughtfully.

"I wonder," he said, after a slight pause, "whether it ever
occurred to you to interview Miss Daisy Hyslop, the young lady
who was with Bidlake on the night of his murder?"

"I called upon her the day afterwards," the detective answered.

"She had nothing to say?"

"Nothing whatever."

"Indirectly, of course," Francis continued, "the poor girl was
the cause of his death.  If she had not insisted upon his going
out for a taxicab, the man who was loitering about would probably
have never got hold of him."

The detective glanced up furtively at the speaker.  He seemed to
reflect for a moment.

"I gathered," he said, "in conversation with the commissionaire,
that Miss Hyslop was a little impatient that night.  It seems,
however, that she was anxious to get to a ball which was being
given down in Kensington."

"There was a ball, was there?" Francis asked.

"Without a doubt," the detective replied.  "It was given by a
Miss Clara Bultiwell.  She happens to remember urging Miss Hyslop
to come on as early as possible."

"So that's that," Francis observed.

"Just so, Mr. Ledsam," the detective murmured.

They were walking along the Mall now, eastwards.  The detective,
who seemed to have been just a saunterer, had accommodated
himself to Francis' destination.

"Let me see, there was nothing stolen from the young man's
person, was there?" Francis asked presently.

"Apparently nothing at all, sir."

"And I gather that you have made every possible enquiry as to the
young man's relations with his friends?"

"So far as one can learn, sir, they seem to have been perfectly
amicable."

"Of course," Francis remarked presently, "this may have been
quite a purposeless affair.  The deed may have been committed by
a man who was practically a lunatic, without any motive or reason
whatever."

"Precisely so, sir," the detective agreed.

"But, all the same, I don't think it was."

"Neither do I, sir."

Francis smiled slightly.

"Shopland," he said, "if there is no further external evidence to
be collected, I suggest that there is only one person likely to
prove of assistance to you."

"And that one person, sir?"

"Miss Daisy Hyslop."

"The young lady whom I have already seen?"

Francis nodded.

"The young lady whom you have already seen," he assented.  "At
the same time, Mr. Shopland, we must remember this.  If Miss
Hyslop has any knowledge of the facts which are behind Mr.
Bidlake's murder, it is more likely to be to her interest to keep
them to herself, than to give them away to the police free gratis
and for nothing.  Do you follow me?"

"Precisely, sir."

"That being so," Francis continued, "I am going to make a
proposition to you for what it is worth.  Where were you going
when I met you this morning, Shopland?"

"To call upon you in Clarges Street, sir."

"What for?"

"I was going to ask you if you would be so kind as to call upon
Miss Daisy Hyslop, sir."

Francis smiled.

"Great minds," he murmured.  "I will see the young lady this
afternoon, Shopland."

The detective raised his hat.  They had reached the spot where
his companion turned off by the Horse Guards Parade.

"I may hope to hear from you, then, sir?"

"Within the course of a day or two, perhaps earlier," Francis
promised.


Francis continued his walk along the Embankment to his chambers
in the Temple.  He glanced in the outer office as he passed to
his consulting room.

"Anything fresh, Angrave?" he asked his head-clerk.

"Nothing whatever, sir," was the quiet reply.

He passed on to his own den--a bare room with long windows
looking out over the gardens.  He glanced at the two or three
letters which lay on his desk, none of them of the least
interest, and leaning back in his chair commenced to fill his
pipe.  There was a knock at the door.  Fawsitt, a young beginner
at the bar, in whom he had taken some interest and who deviled
for him, presented himself.

"Can I have a word with you, Mr. Ledsam?" he asked.

"By all means," was the prompt response.  "Sit down."

Fawsitt seated himself on the other side of the table.  He had a
long, thin face, dark, narrow eyes, unwholesome complexion, a
slightly hooked nose, and teeth discoloured through constant
smoking.  His fingers, too, bore the tell-tale yellow stains.

"Mr. Ledsam," he said, "I think, with your permission, I should
like to leave at the end of my next three months."

Francis glanced across at him.

"Sorry to hear that, Fawsitt.  Are you going to work for any one
else?"

"I haven't made arrangements yet, sir," the young man replied.
"I thought of offering myself to Mr. Barnes."

"Why do you want to leave me?" Francis asked.

"There isn't enough for me to do, sir."

Francis lit his pipe.

"It's probably just a lull, Fawsitt," he remarked.

"I don't think so, sir."

"The devil!  You've been gossiping with some of these solicitors'
clerks, Fawsitt."

"I shouldn't call it gossiping, sir.  I am always interested to
hear anything that may concern our--my future.  I have reason to
believe, sir, that we are being passed over for briefs."

"The reason being?"

"One can't pick and choose, sir.  One shouldn't, anyway."

Francis smiled.

"You evidently don't approve of any measure of personal choice as
to the work which one takes up."

"Certainly I do not, sir, in our profession.  The only brief I
would refuse would be a losing or an ill-paid one.  I don't
conceive it to be our business to prejudge a case."

"I see," Francis murmured.  "Go on, Fawsitt."

"There's a rumour about," the young man continued, "that you are
only going to plead where the chances are that your client is
innocent."

"There's some truth in that," Francis admitted.

"If I could leave a little before the three months, sir, I should
be glad," Fawsitt said.  "I look at the matter from an entirely
different point of view."

"You shall leave when you like, of course, Fawsitt, but tell me
what that point of view is?"

"Just this, sir.  The simplest-minded idiot who ever stammered
through his address, can get an innocent prisoner off if he knows
enough of the facts and the law.  To my mind, the real triumph in
our profession is to be able to unwind the meshes of damning
facts and force a verdict for an indubitably guilty client."

"How does the moral side of that appeal to you?" his senior
enquired.

"I didn't become a barrister to study morals, or even to consider
them," was the somewhat caustic reply.  "When once a brief is in
my mind, it is a matter of brain, cunning and resource.  The
guiltier a man, the greater the success if you can get him off."

"And turn him loose again upon Society?"

"It isn't our job to consider that, sir.  The moral question is
only confusing in the matter.  Our job is to make use of the law
for the benefit of our client.  That's what we're paid for.
That's the measure of our success or failure."

Francis nodded.

"Very reasonably put, Fawsitt," he conceded.  "I'll give you a
letter to Barnes whenever you like."

"I should be glad if you would do so, sir," the young man said.
"I'm only wasting my time here ...."

Francis wrote a letter of recommendation to Barnes, the great K.C.,
considered a stray brief which had found its way in, and strolled
up towards the Milan as the hour approached luncheon-time.  In the
American bar of that palatial hotel he found the young man he was
looking for--a flaxen-haired youth who was seated upon one of the
small tables, with his feet upon a chair, laying down the law to
a little group of acquaintances.  He greeted Francis cordially
but without that due measure of respect which nineteen should
accord to thirty-five.

"Cheerio, my elderly relative!" he exclaimed.  "Have a cocktail."

Francis nodded assent.

"Come into this corner with me for a moment, Charles," he
invited.  "I have a word for your ear."

The young man rose and sat by his uncle's side on a settee.

"In my declining years," the latter began, "I find myself
reverting to the follies of youth.  I require a letter of
introduction from you to a young lady of your acquaintance."

"The devil!  Not one of my own special little pets, I hope?"

"Her name is Miss Daisy Hyslop," Francis announced.

Lord Charles Southover pursed his lips and whistled.  He glanced
at Francis sideways.

"Is this the beginning of a campaign amongst the butterflies," he
enquired, "because, if so, I feel it my duty, uncle, to address
to you a few words of solemn warning.  Miss Daisy Hyslop is hot
stuff."

"Look here, young fellow," Francis said equably, "I don't know
what the state of your exchequer is--"

"I owe you forty," Lord Charles interrupted.  "Spring another
tenner, make it fifty, that is, and the letter of introduction I
will write for you will bring tears of gratitude to your eyes."

"I'll spring the tenner," Francis promised, "but you'll write
just what I tell you--no more and no less."

"Anything extra for keeping mum at home?" the young man ventured
tentatively.

"You're a nice sort of nephew to have!" Francis declared.
"Abandon these futile attempts at blackmail and just come this
way to the writing-table."

"You've got the tenner with you?" the young man asked anxiously.

Francis produced a well-filled pocketbook.  His nephew led the
way to a writing-table, lit a cigarette which he stuck into the
corner of his mouth, and in painstaking fashion wrote the few
lines which Francis dictated.  The ten pounds changed hands.

"Have one with me for luck?" the young man invited brightly.
"No?  Perhaps you're right," he added, in valedictory fashion.
"You'd better keep your head clear for Daisy!"




CHAPTER XI


Miss Daisy Hyslop received Francis that afternoon, in the
sitting-room of her little suite at the Milan.  Her welcoming
smile was plaintive and a little subdued, her manner undeniably
gracious.  She was dressed in black, a wonderful background for
her really gorgeous hair, and her deportment indicated a recent
loss.

"How nice of you to come and see me," she murmured, with a
lingering touch of the fingers.  "Do take that easy-chair,
please, and sit down and talk to me.  Your roses were beautiful,
but whatever made you send them to me?"

"Impulse," he answered.

She laughed softly.

"Then please yield to such impulses as often as you feel them,"
she begged.  "I adore flowers.  Just now, too," she added, with a
little sigh, "anything is welcome which helps to keep my mind off
my own affairs."

"It was very good of you to let me come," he declared.  "I can
quite understand that you don't feel like seeing many people just
now."

Francis' manner, although deferential and courteous, had
nevertheless some quality of aloofness in it to which she was
unused and which she was quick to recognise.  The smile, faded
from her face.  She seemed suddenly not quite so young.

"Haven't I seen you before somewhere quite lately?" she asked, a
little sharply.

"You saw me at Soto's, the night that Victor Bidlake was
murdered," he reminded her.  "I stood quite close to you both
while you were waiting for your taxi."

The animation evoked by this call from a presumably new admirer,
suddenly left her.  She became nervous and constrained.  She
glanced again at his card.

"Don't tell me," she begged, "that you have come to ask me any
questions about that night!  I simply could not bear it.  The
police have been here twice, and I had nothing to tell them,
absolutely nothing."

"Quite right," he assented soothingly.  "Police have such a
clumsy way of expecting valuable information for nothing.  I'm
always glad to hear of their being disappointed."

She studied her visitor for a moment carefully.  Then she turned
to the table by her side, picked up a note and read it through.

"Lord Southover tells me here," she said, "that you are just a
pal of his who wants to make my acquaintance.  He doesn't say
why."

"Is that necessary?" Francis asked good-naturedly.

She moved in her chair a little nervously, crossing and
uncrossing her legs more than once.  Her white silk stockings
underneath her black skirt were exceedingly effective, a fact of
which she never lost consciousness, although at that moment she
was scarcely inspired to play the coquette.

"I'd like to think it wasn't," she admitted frankly.

"I've seen you repeatedly upon the stage," he told her, "and,
though musical comedy is rather out of my line, I have always
admired you immensely."

She studied him once more almost wistfully.

"You look very nice," she acknowledged, "but you don't look at
all the kind of man who admires girls who do the sort of rubbish
I do on the stage."

"What do I look like?" he asked, smiling.

"A man with a purpose," she answered.

"I begin to think," he ventured, "that we shall get on.  You are
really a very astute young lady."

"You are quite sure you're not one of these amateur detectives
one reads about?" she demanded.

"Certainly not," he assured her.  "I will confess that I am
interested in Victor Bidlake's death, and I should like to
discover the truth about it, but I have a reason for that which I
may tell you some day.  It has nothing whatever to do with the
young man himself.  To the best of my belief, I never saw or
heard of him before in my life.  My interest lies with another
person.  You have lost a great friend, I know.  If you felt
disposed to tell me the whole story,  it might make such a
difference."

She sighed.  Her confidence was returning--also her self-pity.
The latter at once betrayed itself.

"You see," she confided, "Victor and I were engaged to be
married, so naturally I let him help me a little.  I shan't be
able to stay on here now.  They are bothering me about their bill
already," she added, with a side-glance at an envelope which
stood on a table by her side.

He drew a little nearer to her.

"Miss Hyslop--" he began.

"Daisy," she interrupted.

"Miss Daisy Hyslop, then," he continued, smiling, "I suggested
just now that I did not want to come and bother you for
information without any return.  If I can be of any assistance to
you in that matter," he added, glancing towards the envelope, "I
shall be very pleased."

She sighed gratefully.

"Just till Victor's people return to town," she said.  "I know
that they mean to do something for me."

"How much?" he asked.

"Two hundred pounds would keep me going," she told him.

He wrote out a cheque.  Miss Hyslop drew a sigh of relief as she
laid it on one side with the envelope.  Then she swung round in
her chair to face him where he sat at the writing-table.

"I am afraid you will think that what I have to tell is very
insignificant," she confessed.  "Victor was one of those boys who
always fancied themselves bored.  He was bored with polo, bored
with motoring, bored with the country and bored with town.  Then
quite suddenly during the last few weeks he seemed changed.  All
that he would tell me was that he had found a new interest in
life.  I don't know what it was but I don't think it was a nice
one.  He seemed to drop all his old friends, too, and go about
with a new set altogether--not a nice set at all.  He used to
stay out all night, and he quite gave up going to dances and
places where he could take me.  Once or twice he came here in
the afternoon, dead beat, without having been to bed at all,
and before he could say half-a-dozen words he was asleep in my
easy-chair.  He used to mutter such horrible things that I had
to wake him up."

"Was he ever short of money?" Francis asked.

She shook her head.

"Not seriously," she answered.  "He was quite well-off, besides
what his people allowed him.  I was going to have a wonderful
settlement as soon as our engagement was announced.  However, to
go on with what I was telling you, the very night before--it
happened--he came in to see me, looking like nothing on earth.
He cried like a baby, behaved like a lunatic, and called himself
all manner of names.  He had had a great deal too much to drink,
and I gathered that he had seen something horrible.  It was then
he asked me to dine with him the next night, and told me that he
was going to break altogether with his new friends.  Something in
connection with them seemed to have given him a terrible fright."

Francis nodded.  He had the tact to abandon his curiosity at this
precise point.

"The old story," he declared, "bad company and rotten habits.  I
suppose some one got to know that the young man usually carried a
great deal of money about with him."

"It was so foolish of him," she assented eagerly: "I warned him
about it so often.  The police won't listen to it but I am
absolutely certain that he was robbed.  I noticed when he paid
the bill that he had a great wad of bank-notes which were never
discovered afterwards."

Francis rose to his feet.

"What are you doing to-night?" he enquired.

"Nothing," she acknowledged eagerly.

"Then let's dine somewhere and see the show at the Frivolity," he
suggested.

"You dear man!" she assented with enthusiasm.  "The one thing I
wanted to do, and the one person I wanted to do it with."




CHAPTER XII


It was after leaving Miss Daisy Hyslop's flat that the event to
which Francis Ledsam had been looking forward more than anything
else in the world, happened.  It came about entirely by chance.
There were no taxis in the Strand.  Francis himself had finished
work for the day, and feeling disinclined for his usual rubber of
bridge, he strolled homewards along the Mall.  At the corner of
Green Park, he came face to face with the woman who for the last
few months had scarcely been out of his thoughts.  Even in that
first moment he realised to his pain that she would have avoided
him if she could.  They met, however, where the path narrowed,
and he left her no chance to avoid him.  That curious impulse of
conventionality which opens a conversation always with cut and
dried banalities, saved them perhaps from a certain amount of
embarrassment.  Without any conscious suggestion, they found
themselves walking side by side.

"I have been wanting to see you very much indeed," he said.  "I
even went so far as to wonder whether I dared call."

"Why should you?" she asked.  "Our acquaintance began and ended
in tragedy.  There is scarcely any purpose in carrying it
further."

He looked at her for a moment before replying.  She was wearing
black, but scarcely the black of a woman who sorrows.  She was
still frigidly beautiful, redolent, in all the details of her
toilette, of that almost negative perfection which he had learnt
to expect from her.  She suggested to him still that same sense
of aloofness from the actualities of life.

"I prefer not to believe that it is ended," he protested.  "Have
you so many friends that you have no room for one who has never
consciously done you any harm?"

She looked at him with some faint curiosity in her immobile
features.

"Harm?  No!  On the contrary, I suppose I ought to thank you for
your evidence at the inquest."

"Some part of it was the truth," he replied.

"I suppose so," she admitted drily.  "You told it very cleverly."

He looked her in the eyes.

"My profession helped me to be a good witness," he said.  "As for
the gist of my evidence, that was between my conscience and
myself."

"Your conscience?" she repeated.  "Are there really men who
possess such things?"

"I hope you will discover that for yourself some day," he
answered.  "Tell me your plans?  Where are you living?"

"For the present with my father in Curzon Street."

"With Sir Timothy Brast?"

She assented.

"You know him?" she asked indifferently.

"Very slightly," Francis replied.  "We talked together, some
nights ago, at Soto's Restaurant.  I am afraid that I did not
make a very favourable impression upon him.  I gathered, too,
that he has somewhat eccentric tastes."

"I do not see a great deal of my father," she said.  "We met, a
few months ago, for the first time since my marriage, and things
have been a little difficult between us--just at first.  He
really scarcely ever puts in an appearance at Curzon Street.  I
dare say you have heard that he makes a hobby of an amazing
country house which he has down the river."

"The Walled House?" he ventured.

She nodded.

"I see you have heard of it.  All London, they tell me, gossips
about the entertainments there."

"Are they really so wonderful?" he asked.

"I have never been to one," she replied.  "As a matter of fact, I
have spent scarcely any time in England since my marriage.  My
husband, as I remember he told you, was fond of travelling."

Notwithstanding the warm spring air he was conscious of a certain
chilliness.  Her level, indifferent tone seemed to him almost
abnormally callous.  A horrible realisation flashed for a moment
in his brain.  She was speaking of the man whom she had killed!

"Your father overheard a remark of mine," Francis told her.  "I
was at Soto's with a friend--Andrew Wilmore, the novelist--and
to tell you the truth we were speaking of the shock I experienced
when I realised that I had been devoting every effort of which I
was capable, to saving the life of--shall we say a criminal?
Your father heard me say, in rather a flamboyant manner, perhaps,
that in future I declared war against all crime and all
criminals."

She smiled very faintly, a smile which had in it no single
element of joy or humour.

"I can quite understand my father intervening," she said.  "He
poses as being rather a patron of artistically-perpetrated crime.
Sue is his favourite author, and I believe that he has exceedingly
grim ideas as to duelling and fighting generally.  He was in prison
once for six months at New Orleans for killing a man who insulted
my mother.  Nothing in the world would ever have convinced him that
he had not done a perfectly legitimate thing."

"I am expecting to find him quite an interesting study, when I
know him better," Francis pronounced.  "My only fear is that he
will count me an unfriendly person and refuse to have anything to
do with me."

"I am not at all sure," she said indifferently, "that it would
not be very much better for you if he did."

"I cannot admit that," he answered, smiling.  "I think that our
paths in life are too far apart for either of us to influence the
other.  You don't share his tastes, do you?"

"Which ones?" she asked, after a moment's silence.

"Well, boxing for one," he replied.  "They tell me that he is the
greatest living patron of the ring, both here and in America."

"I have never been to a fight in my life," she confessed.  "I
hope that I never may."

"I can't go so far as that," he declared, "but boxing isn't
altogether one of my hobbies.  Can't we leave your father and
his tastes alone for the present?  I would rather talk about
--ourselves.  Tell me what you care about most in life?"

"Nothing," she answered listlessly.

"But that is only a phase," he persisted.  "You have had terrible
trials, I know, and they must have affected your outlook on life,
but you are still young, and while one is young life is always
worth having."

"I thought so once," she assented.  "I don't now."

"But there must be--there will be compensations," he assured her.
"I know that just now you are suffering from the reaction--after
all you have gone through.  The memory of that will pass."

"The memory of what I have gone through will never pass," she
answered.

There was a moment's intense silence, a silence pregnant with
reminiscent drama.  The little room rose up before his memory
--the woman's hopeless, hating eyes, the quivering thread of steel,
the dead man's mocking words.  He seemed at that moment to see
into the recesses of her mind.  Was it remorse that troubled
her, he wondered?  Did she lack strength to realise that in that
half-hour at the inquest he had placed on record for ever his
judgment of her deed?  Even to think of it now was morbid.
Although he would never have confessed it even to himself, there
was growing daily in his mind some idea of reward.  She had never
thanked him--he hoped that she never would--but he had surely a
right to claim some measure of her thoughts, some light place in
her life.

"Please look at me," he begged, a little abruptly.

She turned her head in some surprise.  Francis was almost
handsome in the clear Spring sunlight, his face alight with
animation, his deep-set grey eyes full of amused yet anxious
solicitude.  Even as she appreciated these things and became
dimly conscious of his eager interest, her perturbation seemed to
grow.

"Well?" she ventured.

"Do I look like a person who knew what he was talking about?" he
asked.

"On the whole, I should say that you did," she admitted.

"Very well, then," he went on cheerfully, "believe me when I say
that the shadow which depresses you all the time now will pass.
I say this confidently," he added, his voice softening, "because
I hope to be allowed to help.  Haven't you guessed that I am very
glad indeed to see you again?"

She came to a sudden standstill.  They had just passed through
Lansdowne Passage and were in the quiet end of Curzon Street.

"But you must not talk to me like that!" she expostulated.

"Why not?" he demanded.  "We have met under strange and untoward
circumstances, but are you so very different from other women?"

For a single moment she seemed infinitely more human, startled, a
little nervous, exquisitely sympathetic to an amazing and
unexpected impression.  She seemed to look with glad but
terrified eyes towards the vision of possible things--and then to
realise that it was but a trick of the fancy and to come
shivering back to the world of actualities.

"I am very different," she said quietly.  "I have lived my life.
What I lack in years has been made up to me in horror.  I have no
desire now but to get rid of this aftermath of years as smoothly
and quickly as possible.  I do not wish any man, Mr. Ledsam, to
talk to me as you are doing."

"You will not accept my friendship?"

"It is impossible," she replied.

"May I be allowed to call upon you?" he went on, doggedly.

"I do not receive visitors," she answered.

They were walking slowly up Curzon Street now.  She had given him
every opportunity to leave her, opportunities to which he was
persistently blind.  Her obstinacy had been a shock to him.

"I am sorry," he said, "but I cannot accept my dismissal like
this.  I shall appeal to your father.  However much he may
dislike me, he has at least common-sense."

She looked at him with a touch of the old horror in her
coldly-questioning eyes.

"In your way you have been kind to me," she admitted.  "Let me in
return give you a word of advice.  Let me beg you to have nothing
whatever to do with my father, in friendship or in enmity.
Either might be equally disastrous.  Either, in the long run, is
likely to cost you dear."

"If that is your opinion of your father, why do you live with
him?" he asked.

She had become entirely callous again.  Her smile, with its
mocking quality, reminded him for a moment of the man whom they
were discussing.

"Because I am a luxury and comfort-loving parasite," she answered
deliberately, "because my father gladly pays my accounts at
Lucille and Worth and Reville, because I have never learnt to do
without things.  And please remember this.  My father, so far as
I am concerned, has no faults.  He is a generous and courteous
companion.  Nevertheless, number 70 b, Curzon Street is no place
for people who desire to lead normal lives."

And with that she was gone.  Her gesture of dismissal was so
complete and final that he had no courage for further argument.
He had lost her almost as soon as he had found her.




CHAPTER XIII


Four men were discussing the verdict at the adjourned inquest
upon Victor Bidlake, at Soto's American Bar about a fortnight
later.  They were Robert Fairfax, a young actor in musical
comedy, Peter Jacks, a cinema producer, Gerald Morse, a dress
designer, and Sidney Voss, a musical composer and librettist, all
habitues of the place and members of the little circle towards
which the dead man had seemed, during the last few weeks of his
life, to have become attracted.  At a table a short distance
away, Francis Ledsam was seated with a cocktail and a dish of
almonds before him.  He seemed to be studying an evening paper
and to be taking but the scantiest notice of the conversation at
the bar.

"It just shows," Peter Jacks declared, "that crime is the easiest
game in the world.  Given a reasonable amount of intelligence,
and a murderer's business is about as simple as a sandwich-man's."

"The police," Gerald Morse, a pale-faced, anaemic-looking youth,
declared, "rely upon two things, circumstantial evidence and
motive.  In the present case there is no circumstantial evidence,
and as to motive, poor old Victor was too big a fool to have an
enemy in the world."

Sidney Voss, who was up for the Sheridan Club and had once been
there, glanced respectfully across at Francis.

"You ought to know something about crime and criminals, Mr.
Ledsam," he said.  "Have you any theory about the affair?"

Francis set down the glass from which he had been drinking, and,
folding up the evening paper, laid it by the side of him.

"As a matter of fact," he answered calmly, "I have."

The few words, simply spoken, yet in their way charged with
menace, thrilled through the little room.  Fairfax swung round
upon his stool, a tall, aggressive-looking youth whose good-looks
were half eaten up with dissipation.  His eyes were unnaturally
bright, the cloudy remains in his glass indicated absinthe.

"Listen, you fellows!" he exclaimed.  "Mr. Francis Ledsam, the
great criminal barrister, is going to solve the mystery of poor
old Victor's death for us!"

The three other young men all turned around from the bar.  Their
eyes and whole attention seemed rivetted upon Francis.  No one
seemed to notice the newcomer who passed quietly to a chair in
the background, although he was a person of some note and
interest to all of them.  Imperturbable and immaculate as ever,
Sir Timothy Brast smiled amiably upon the little gathering,
summoned a waiter and ordered a Dry Martini.

"I can scarcely promise to do that," Francis said slowly, his
eyes resting for a second or two upon each of the four faces.
"Exact solutions are a little out of my line.  I think I can
promise to give you a shock, though, if you're strong enough to
stand it."

There was another of those curiously charged silences.  The
bartender paused with the cocktail shaker still in his hand.
Voss began to beat nervously upon the counter with his knuckles.

"We can stand anything but suspense," he declared.  "Get on with
your shock-giving."

"I believe that the person responsible for the death of Victor
Bidlake is in this room at the present moment," Francis declared.

Again the silence, curious, tense and dramatic.  Little Jimmy,
the bartender, who had leaned forward to listen, stood with his
mouth slightly open and the cocktail-shaker which was in his hand
leaked drops upon the counter.  The first conscious impulse of
everybody seemed to be to glance suspiciously around the room.
The four young men at the bar, Jimmy and one waiter, Francis and
Sir Timothy Brast, were its only occupants.

"I say, you know, that's a bit thick, isn't it?" Sidney Voss
stammered at last.  "I wasn't in the place at all, I was in
Manchester, but it's a bit rough on these other chaps, Victor's
pals."

"I was dining at the Cafe Royal," Jacks declared, loudly.

Morse drew a little breath.

"Every one knows that I was at Brighton," he muttered.

"I went home directly the bar here closed," Jimmy said, in a
still dazed tone.  "I heard nothing about it till the next
morning."

"Alibis by the bushel," Fairfax laughed harshly.  "As for me, I
was doing my show--every one knows that.  I was never in the
place at all."

"The murder was not committed in the place," Francis commented
calmly.

Fairfax slid off his stool.  A spot of colour blazed in his pale
cheeks, the glass which he was holding snapped in his fingers.
He seemed suddenly possessed.

"I say, what the hell are you getting at?" he cried.  "Are you
accusing me--or any of us Victor's pals?"

"I accuse no one," Francis replied, unperturbed.  "You invited a
statement from me and I made it."

Sir Timothy Brast rose from his place and made his way to the end
of the counter, next to Fairfax and nearest Francis.  He
addressed the former.  There was an inscrutable smile upon his
lips, his manner was reassuring.

"Young gentleman," he begged, "pray do not disturb yourself.  I
will answer for it that neither you nor any of your friends are
the objects of Mr. Leadsam's suspicion.  Without a doubt, it is I
to whom his somewhat bold statement refers."

They all stared at him, immersed in another crisis, bereft of
speech.  He tapped a cigarette upon the counter and lit it.
Fairfax, whose glass had just been refilled by the bartender, was
still ghastly pale, shaking with nervousness and breathing
hoarsely.  Francis, tense and alert in his chair, watched the
speaker but said nothing.

"You see," Sir Timothy continued, addressing himself to the four
young men at the bar, "I happen to have two special aversions in
life.  One is sweet champagne and the other amateur detectives
--their stories, their methods and everything about them.  I
chanced to sit upstairs in the restaurant, within hearing of Mr.
Ledsam and his friend Mr. Wilmore, the novelist, the other night,
and I heard Mr. Ledsam, very much to my chagrin, announce his
intention of abandoning a career in which he has, if he will
allow me to say so,"--with a courteous bow to Francis--"attained
considerable distinction, to indulge in the moth-eaten,
flamboyant and melodramatic antics of the lesser Sherlock Holmes.
I fear that I could not resist the opportunity of--I think you
young men call it--pulling his leg."

Every one was listening intently, including Shopland, who had
just drifted into the room and subsided into a chair near
Francis.

"I moved my place, therefore," Sir Timothy continued, "and I
whispered in Mr. Ledsam's ear some rodomontade to the effect that
if he were planning to be the giant crime-detector of the world,
I was by ambition the arch-criminal--or words to that effect.  And
to give emphasis to my words, I wound up by prophesying a crime
in the immediate vicinity of the place within a few hours."

"A somewhat significant prophecy, under the circumstances,"
Francis remarked, reaching out for a dish of salted almonds and
drawing them towards him.

Sir Timothy shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly.

"I will confess," he admitted, "that I had not in my mind an
affair of such dimensions.  My harmless remark, however, has
produced cataclysmic effects.  The conversation to which I refer
took place on the night of young Bidlake's murder, and Mr.
Ledsam, with my somewhat, I confess, bombastic words in his
memory, has pitched upon me as the bloodthirsty murderer."

"Hold on for a moment, sir," Peter Jacks begged, wiping the
perspiration from his forehead.  "We've got to have another drink
quick.  Poor old Bobby here looks knocked all of a heap, and I'm
kind of jumpy myself.  You'll join us, sir?"

"I thank you," was the courteous reply.  "I do not as a rule
indulge to the extent of more than one cocktail, but I will
recognise the present as an exceptional occasion.  To continue,
then," he went on, after the glasses had been filled, "I have
during the last few weeks experienced the ceaseless and lynx-eyed
watch of Mr. Ledsam and presumably his myrmidons.  I do not know
whether you are all acquainted with my name, but in case you are
not, let me introduce myself.  I am Sir Timothy Brast, Chairman,
as I dare say you know, of the United Transvaal Gold Mines,
Chairman, also, of two of the principal hospitals in London, Vice
President of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to
Animals, a patron of sport in many forms, a traveller in many
countries, and a recipient of the honour of knighthood from His
Majesty, in recognition of my services for various philanthropic
works.  These facts, however, have availed me nothing now that
the bungling amateur investigator into crime has pointed the
finger of suspicion towards me.  My servants and neighbours have
alike been plagued to death with cunning questions as to my life
and habits.  I have been watched in the streets and watched in my
harmless amusements.  My simple life has been peered into from
every perspective and direction.  In short, I am suspect.  Mr.
Ledsam's terrifying statement a few minutes ago was directed
towards me and me only."

There were murmurs of sympathy from the four young men, who each
in his own fashion appeared to derive consolation from Sir
Timothy's frank and somewhat caustic statement.  Francis, who had
listened unmoved to this flow of words, glanced towards the door
behind which dark figures seemed to be looming.

"That is all you have to say, Sir Timothy?" he asked politely.

"For the present, yes," was the guarded reply.  "I trust that I
have succeeded in setting these young gentlemen's minds at ease."

"There is one of them," Francis said gravely, "whose mind not
even your soothing words could lighten."

Shopland had risen unobtrusively to his feet.  He laid his hand
suddenly on Fairfax's shoulder and whispered in his ear.
Fairfax, after his first start, seemed cool enough.  He stretched
out his hand towards the glass which as yet he had not touched;
covered it with his fingers for a moment and drained its
contents.  The gently sarcastic smile left Sir Timothy's lips.
His eyebrows met in a quick frown, his eyes glittered.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded sharply.

A policeman in plain clothes had advanced from the door.  The
manager hovered in the background.  Shopland saw that all was
well.

"It means," he announced, "that I have just arrested Mr. Robert
Fairfax here on a charge of wilful murder.  There is a way out
through the kitchens, I believe.  Take his other arm, Holmes.
Now, gentlemen, if you please."

There were a few bewildered exclamations--then a dramatic hush.
Fairfax had fallen forward on his stool.  He seemed to have
relapsed into a comatose state.  Every scrap of colour was
drained from his sallow cheeks, his eyes were covered with a film
and he was breathing heavily.  The detective snatched up the
glass from which the young man had been drinking, and smelt it.

"I saw him drop a tablet in just now," Jimmy faltered.  "I
thought it was one of the digestion pills he uses sometimes."

Shopland and the policeman placed their hands underneath the
armpits of the unconscious man.

"He's done, sir," the former whispered to Francis.  "We'll try
and get him to the station if we can."




CHAPTER XIV


The greatest tragedies in the world, provided they happen to
other people, have singularly little effect upon the externals of
our own lives.  There was certainly not a soul in Soto's that
night who did not know that Bobby Fairfax had been arrested in
the bar below for the murder of Victor Bidlake, had taken poison
and died on the way to the police station.  Yet the same number
of dinners were ordered and eaten, the same quantity of wine
drunk.  The management considered that they had shown marvellous
delicacy of feeling by restraining the orchestra from their usual
musical gymnastics until after the service of dinner.
Conversation, in consequence, buzzed louder than ever.  One
speculation in particular absorbed the attention of every single
person in the room--why had Bobby Fairfax, at the zenith of a
very successful career, risked the gallows and actually accepted
death for the sake of killing Victor Bidlake, a young man with
whom, so far as anybody knew, he had no cause of quarrel
whatever?  There were many theories, many people who knew the
real facts and whispered them into a neighbour's ear, only to
have them contradicted a few moments later.  Yet, curiously
enough, the two men who knew most about it were the two most
silent men in the room, for each was dining alone.  Francis, who
had remained only in the hope that something of the sort might
happen, was conscious of a queer sense of excitement when, with
the service of coffee, Sir Timothy, glass in hand, moved up from
a table lower down and with a word of apology took the vacant
place by his side.  It was what he had desired, and yet he felt a
thrill almost of fear at Sir Timothy's murmured words.  He felt
that he was in the company of one who, if not an enemy, at any
rate had no friendly feeling towards him.

"My congratulations, Mr. Ledsam," Sir Timothy said quietly.  "You
appear to have started your career with a success."

"Only a partial one," Francis acknowledged, "and as a matter of
fact I deny that I have started in any new career.  It was easy
enough to make use of a fluke and direct the intelligence of
others towards the right person, but when the real significance
of the thing still eludes you, one can scarcely claim a triumph."

Sir Timothy gently knocked the ash from the very fine cigar which
he was smoking.

"Still, your groundwork was good," he observed.

Francis shrugged his shoulders.

"That," he admitted, "was due to chance."

"Shall we exchange notes?" Sir Timothy suggested gently.  "It
might be interesting."

"As you will," Francis assented.  "There is no particular secret
in the way I stumbled upon the truth.  I was dining here that
night, as you know, with Andrew Wilmore, and while he was
ordering the dinner and talking to some friends, I went down to
the American Bar to have a cocktail.  Miss Daisy Hyslop and
Fairfax were seated there alone and talking confidentially.
Fairfax was insisting that Miss Hyslop should do something which
puzzled her.  She consented reluctantly, and Fairfax then hurried
off to the theatre.  Later on, Miss Hyslop and the unfortunate
young man occupied a table close to ours, and I happened to
notice that she made a point of leaving the restaurant at a
particular time.  While they were waiting in the vestibule she
grew very impatient.  I was standing behind them and I saw her
glance at the clock just before she insisted upon her companion's
going out himself to look for a taxicab.  Ergo, one enquires at
Fairfax's theatre.  For that exact three-quarters of an hour he
is off the stage.  At that point my interest in the matter
ceases.  Scotland Yard was quite capable of the rest."

"Disappointing," Sir Timothy murmured.  "I thought at first that
you were over-modest.  I find that I was mistaken.  It was chance
alone which set you on the right track."

"Well, there is my story, at any rate," Francis declared.  "With
how much of your knowledge of the affair are you going to indulge
me?"

Sir Timothy slowly revolved his brandy glass.

"Well," he said, "I will tell you this.  The two young men
concerned, Bidlake and Fairfax, were both guests of mine recently
at my country house.  They had discovered for one another a very
fierce and reasonable antipathy.  With that recurrence to
primitivism with which I have always been a hearty sympathiser,
they agreed, instead of going round their little world making
sneering remarks about each other, to fight it out."

"At your suggestion, I presume?" Francis interposed.

"Precisely," Sir Timothy assented.  "I recommended that course,
and I offered them facilities for bringing the matter to a
crisis.  The fight, indeed, was to have come off the day after
the unfortunate episode which anticipated it."

"Do you mean to tell me that you knew--" Francis began.

Sir Timothy checked him quietly but effectively.

"I knew nothing," he said, "except this.  They were neither of
them young men of much stomach, and I knew that the one who was
the greater coward would probably try to anticipate the matter by
attacking the other first if he could.  I knew that Fairfax was
the greater coward--not that there was much to choose between
them--and I also knew that he was the injured person.  That is
really all there is about it.  My somewhat theatrical statement
to you was based upon probability, and not upon any certain
foreknowledge.  As you see, it came off."

"And the cause of their quarrel?" Francis asked.

"There might have been a hundred reasons," Sir Timothy observed.
"As a matter of fact, it was the eternal one.  There is no need
to mention a woman's name, so we will let it go at that."

There was a moment's silence--a strange, unforgettable moment for
Francis Ledsam, who seemed by some curious trick of the
imagination to have been carried away into an impossible and
grotesque world.  The hum of eager conversation, the popping of
corks, the little trills of feminine laughter, all blended into
one sensual and not unmusical chorus, seemed to fade from his
ears.  He fancied himself in some subterranean place of vast
dimensions, through the grim galleries of which men and women
with evil faces crept like animals.  And towering above them,
unreal in size, his scornful face an epitome of sin, the knout
which he wielded symbolical and ghastly, driving his motley flock
with the leer of the evil shepherd, was the man from whom he had
already learnt to recoil with horror.  The picture came and went
in a flash.  Francis found himself accepting a courteously
offered cigar from his companion.

"You see, the story is very much like many others," Sir Timothy
murmured, as he lit a fresh Cigar himself and leaned back with
the obvious enjoyment of the cultivated smoker.  "In every
country of the world, the animal world as well as the human
world, the male resents his female being taken from him.
Directly he ceases to resent it, he becomes degenerate.  Surely
you must agree with me, Mr. Leddam?"

"It comes to this, then," Francis pronounced deliberately, "that
you stage-managed the whole affair."

Sir Timothy smiled.

"It is my belief, Mr. Ledsam," he said, "that you grow more and
more intelligent every hour."

Sir Timothy glanced presently at his thin gold watch and put it
back in his pocket regretfully.

"Alas!" he sighed, "I fear that I must tear myself away.  I
particularly want to hear the last act of 'Louise.'  The new
Frenchwoman sings, and my daughter is alone.  You will excuse
me."

Francis nodded silently.  His companion's careless words had
brought a sudden dazzling vision into his mind.  Sir Timothy
scrawled his name at the foot of his bill.

"It is one of my axioms in life, Mr. Ledsam," he continued, "that
there is more pleasure to be derived from the society of one's
enemies than one's friends.  If I thought you sufficiently
educated in the outside ways of the world to appreciate this, I
would ask if you cared to accompany me?"

Francis did not hesitate for a moment.

"Sir Timothy," he said, "I have the greatest detestation for you,
and I am firmly convinced that you represent all the things in
life abhorrent to me.  On the other hand, I should very much like
to hear the last act of 'Louise,' and it would give me the
greatest pleasure to meet your daughter.  So long as there is no
misunderstanding."

Sir Timothy laughed.

"Come," he said, "we will get our hats.  I am becoming more and
more grateful to you, Mr. Ledsam.  You are supplying something in
my life which I have lacked.  You appeal alike to my sense of
humour and my imagination.  We will visit the opera together."




CHAPTER XV


The two men left Soto's together, very much in the fashion of two
ordinary acquaintances sallying out to spend the evening
together.  Sir Timothy's Rolls-Royce limousine was in attendance,
and in a few minutes they were threading the purlieus of Covent
Garden.  It was here that an incident occurred which afforded
Francis considerable food for thought during the next few days.

It was a Friday night, and one or two waggons laden with
vegetable produce were already threading their way through the
difficult thoroughfares.  Suddenly Sir Timothy, who was looking
out of the window, pressed the button of the car, which was at
once brought to a standstill.  Before the footman could reach
the door Sir Timothy was out in the street.  For the first
time Francis saw him angry.  His eyes were blazing.  His voice
--Francis had followed him at once into the street--shook with
passion.  His hand had fallen heavily upon the shoulder of a huge
carter, who, with whip in hand, was belabouring a thin scarecrow
of a horse.

"What the devil are you doing?" Sir Timothy demanded.

The man stared at his questioner, and the instinctive antagonism
of race vibrated in his truculent reply.  The carter was a
beery-faced, untidy-looking brute, but powerfully built and with
huge shoulders.  Sir Timothy, straight as a dart, without overcoat
or any covering to his thin evening clothes, looked like a stripling
in front of him.

"I'm whippin' 'er, if yer want to know," was the carter's reply.
"I've got to get up the 'ill, 'aven't I?  Garn and mind yer own
business!"

"This is my business," Sir Timothy declared, laying his hand upon
the neck of the horse.  "I am an official of the Society for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.  You are laying yourself open
to a fine for your treatment of this poor brute."

"I'll lay myself open for a fine for the treatment of something
else, if you don't quid 'old of my 'oss," the carter retorted,
throwing his whip back into the waggon and coming a step nearer.
"D'yer 'ear?  I don't want any swells interferin' with my
business.  You 'op it.  Is that strite enough?  'Op it, quick!"

Sir Timothy's anger seemed to have abated.  There was even the
beginning of a smile upon his lips.  All the time his hand
caressed the neck of the horse.  Francis noticed with amazement
that the poor brute had raised his head and seemed to be making
some faint effort at reciprocation.

"My good man," Sir Timothy said, "you seem to be one of those
brutal persons unfit to be trusted with an animal.  However--"

The carter had heard quite enough.  Sir Timothy's tone seemed
to madden him.  He clenched his fist and rushed in.

"You take that for interferin', you big toff!" he shouted.

The result of the man's effort at pugilism was almost ridiculous.
His arms appeared to go round like windmills beating the air.  It
really seemed as though he had rushed upon the point of Sir
Timothy's knuckles, which had suddenly shot out like the piston
of an engine.  The carter lay on his back for a moment.  Then he
staggered viciously to his feet.

"Don't," Sir Timothy begged, as he saw signs of another attack.
"I don't want to hurt you.  I have been amateur champion of two
countries.  Not quite fair, is it?"

"Wot d'yer want to come interferin' with a chap's business for?"
the man growled, dabbing his cheek with a filthy handkerchief but
keeping at a respectful distance.

"It happens to be my business also," Sir Timothy replied, "to
interfere whenever I see animals ill-treated.  Now I don't want
to be unreasonable.  That animal has done all the work it ought
to do in this world.  How much is she worth to you?"

Through the man's beer-clogged brain a gleam of cunning began to
find its way.  He looked at the Rolls-Royce, with the two
motionless servants on the box, at Francis standing by, at Sir
Timothy, even to his thick understanding the very prototype of a
"toff."

"That 'oss," he said, "ain't what she was, it's true, but there's
a lot of work in 'er yet.  She may not be much to look at but
she's worth forty quid to me--ay, and one to spit on!"

Sir Timothy counted out some notes from the pocketbook which he
had produced, and handed them to the man.

"Here are fifty pounds," he said.  "The mare is mine.  Johnson!"

The second man sprang from his seat and came round.

"Unharness that mare," his master ordered, "help the man push his
trolley back out of the way, then lead the animal to the mews in
Curzon Street.  See that she is well bedded down and has a good
feed of corn.  To-morrow I shall send her down to the country,
but I will come and have a look at her first."

The man touched his hat and hastened to commence his task.  The
carter, who had been busy counting the notes, thrust them into
his pocket with a grin.

"Good luck to yer, guvnor!" he shouted out, in valedictory
fashion.  "'Ope I meets yer again when I've an old crock on the
go."

Sir Timothy turned his head.

"If ever I happen to meet you, my good man," he threatened,
"using your whip upon a poor beast who's doing his best, I
promise you you won't get up in two minutes, or twenty ....   We
might walk the last few yards, Mr. Ledsam."

The latter acquiesced at once, and in a moment or two they were
underneath the portico of the Opera House.  Sir Timothy had begun
to talk about the opera but Francis was a little distrait.  His
companion glanced at him curiously.

"You are puzzled, Mr. Ledsam?" he remarked.

"Very," was the prompt response.

Sir Timothy smiled.

"You are one of these primitive Anglo-Saxons," he said, "who can
see the simple things with big eyes, but who are terribly worried
at an unfamiliar constituent.  You have summed me up in your mind
as a hardened brute, a criminal by predilection, a patron of
murderers.  Ergo, you ask yourself why should I trouble to save a
poor beast of a horse from being chastised, and go out of my way
to provide her with a safe asylum for the rest of her life?
Shall I help you, Mr. Ledsam?"

"I wish you would," Francis confessed.

They had passed now through the entrance to the Opera House and
were in the corridor leading to the grand tier boxes.  On every
side Sir Timothy had been received with marks of deep respect.
Two bowing attendants were preceding them.  Sir Timothy leaned
towards his companion.

"Because," he whispered, "I like animals better than human
beings."

Margaret Hilditch, her chair pushed back into the recesses of the
box, scarcely turned her head at her father's entrance.

"I have brought an acquaintance of yours, Margaret," the latter
announced, as he hung up his hat.  "You remember Mr. Ledsam?"

Francis drew a little breath of relief as he bowed over her hand.
For the second time her inordinate composure had been assailed.
She was her usual calm and indifferent self almost immediately,
but the gleam of surprise, and he fancied not unpleasant
surprise, had been unmistakable.

"Are you a devotee, Mr. Ledsam?" she asked.

"I am fond of music," Francis answered, "especially this opera."

She motioned to the chair in the front of the box, facing the
stage.

"You must sit there," she insisted.  "I prefer always to remain
here, and my father always likes to face the audience.  I really
believe," she went on, "that he likes to catch the eye of the
journalist who writes little gossipy items, and to see his name
in print."

"But you yourself?" Francis ventured.

"I fancy that my reasons for preferring seclusion should be
obvious enough," she replied, a little bitterly.

"My daughter is inclined, I fear, to be a little morbid," Sir
Timothy said, settling down in his place.

Francis made no reply.  A triangular conversation of this sort
was almost impossible.  The members of the orchestra were already
climbing up to their places, in preparation for the overture to
the last act.  Sir Timothy rose to his feet.

"You will excuse me for a moment," he begged.  "I see a lady to
whom I must pay my respects."

Francis drew a sigh of relief at his departure.  He turned at
once to his companion.

"Did you mind my coming?" he asked.

"Mind it?" she repeated, with almost insolent nonchalance.  "Why
should it affect me in any way?  My father's friends come and go.
I have no interest in any of them."

"But," he protested, "I want you to be interested in me."

She moved a little uneasily in her place.  Her tone,
nevertheless, remained icy.

"Could you possibly manage to avoid personalities in your
conversation, Mr. Ledsam?" she begged.

"I have tried already to tell you how I feel about such things."

She was certainly difficult.  Francis realised that with a little
sigh.

"Were you surprised to see me with your father?" he asked, a
little inanely.

"I cannot conceive what you two have found in common," she
admitted.

"Perhaps our interest in you," he replied.  "By-the-bye, I have
just seen him perform a quixotic but a very fine action," Francis
said.  "He stopped a carter from thrashing his horse; knocked him
down, bought the horse from him and sent it home."

She was mildly interested.

"An amiable side of my father's character which no one would
suspect," she remarked.  "The entire park of his country house at
Hatch End is given over to broken-down animals."

"I am one of those," he confessed, "who find this trait amazing."

"And I am another," she remarked coolly.  "If any one settled
down seriously to try and understand my father, he would need the
spectacles of a De Quincey, the outlook of a Voltaire, and the
callousness of a Borgia.  You see, he doesn't lend himself to any
of the recognised standards."

"Neither do you," he said boldly.

She looked away from him across the House, to where Sir Timothy
was talking to a man and woman in one of the ground-floor boxes.
Francis recognised them with some surprise--an agricultural Duke
and his daughter, Lady Cynthia Milton, one of the most, beautiful
and famous young women in London.

"Your father goes far afield for his friends," Francis remarked.

"My father has no friends," she replied.  "He has many
acquaintances.  I doubt whether he has a single confidant.  I
expect Cynthia is trying to persuade him to invite her to his
next party at The Walled House."

"I should think she would fail, won't she?" he asked.

"Why should you think that?"

Francis shrugged his shoulders slightly.

"Your father's entertainments have the reputation of being
somewhat unique," he remarked.  "You do not, by-the-bye, attend
them yourself."

"You must remember that I have had very few opportunities so
far," she observed.  "Besides, Cynthia has tastes which I do not
share."

"As, for instance?"

"She goes to the National Sporting Club.  She once travelled, I
know, over a hundred miles to go to a bull fight."

"On the whole," Francis said, "I am glad that you do not share
her tastes."

"You know her?" Margaret enquired.

"Indifferently well," Francis replied.  "I knew her when she was
a child, and we seem to come together every now and then at long
intervals.  As a debutante she was charming.  Lately it seems to
me that she has got into the wrong set."

"What do you call the wrong set?"

He hesitated for a moment.

"Please don't think that I am laying down the law," he said.  "I
have been out so little, the last few years, that I ought not,
perhaps, to criticise.  Lady Cynthia, however, seems to me to
belong to the extreme section of the younger generation, the
section who have a sort of craze for the unusual, whose taste in
art and living is distorted and bizarre.  You know what I mean,
don't you--black drawing-rooms, futurist wall-papers, opium dens
and a cocaine box!  It's to some extent affectation, of course,
but it's a folly that claims its victims."

She studied him for a moment attentively.  His leanness was the
leanness of muscular strength and condition, his face was full of
vigour and determination.

"You at least have escaped the abnormal," she remarked.  "I am
not quite sure how the entertainments at The Walled House would
appeal to you, but if my father should invite you there, I should
advise you not to go."

"Why not?" he asked.

She hesitated for a moment.

"I really don't know why I should trouble to give you advice,"
she said.  "As a matter of fact, I don't care whether you go or
not.  In any case, you are scarcely likely to be asked."

"I am not sure that I agree with you," he protested.  "Your
father seems to have taken quite a fancy to me."

"And you?" she murmured.

"Well, I like the way he bought that horse," Francis admitted.
"And I am beginning to realise that there may be something in the
theory which he advanced when he invited me to accompany him here
this evening--that there is a certain piquancy in one's
intercourse with an enemy, which friendship lacks.  There may be
complexities in his character which as yet I have not
appreciated."

The curtain had gone up and the last act of the opera had
commenced.  She leaned back in her chair.  Without a word or even
a gesture, he understood that a curtain had been let down between
them.  He obeyed her unspoken wish and relapsed into silence.
Her very absorption, after all, was a hopeful sign.  She would
have him believe that she felt nothing, that she was living
outside all the passion and sentiment of life.  Yet she was
absorbed in the music ....  Sir Timothy came back and seated
himself silently.  It was not until the tumult of applause which
broke out after the great song of the French ouvrier, that a word
passed between them.

"Cavalisti is better," Sir Timothy commented.  "This man has not
the breadth of passion.  At times he is merely peevish."

She shook her head.

"Cavalisti would be too egotistical for the part," she said
quietly.  "It is difficult."

Not another word was spoken until the curtain fell.  Francis
lingered for a moment over the arrangement of her cloak.  Sir
Timothy was already outside, talking to some acquaintances.

"It has been a great pleasure to see you like this unexpectedly,"
he said, a little wistfully.

"I cannot imagine why," she answered, with an undernote of
trouble in her tone.  "Remember the advice I gave you before.  No
good can come of any friendship between my father and you."

"There is this much of good in it, at any rate," he answered, as
he held open the door for her.  "It might give me the chance of
seeing you sometimes."

"That is not a matter worth considering," she replied.

"I find it very much worth considering," he whispered, losing his
head for a moment as they stood close together in the dim light
of the box, and a sudden sense of the sweetness of her thrilled
his pulses.  "There isn't anything in the world I want so much as
to see you oftener--to have my chance."

There was a momentary glow in her eyes.  Her lips quivered.  The
few words which he saw framed there--he fancied of reproof
--remained unspoken.  Sir Timothy was waiting for them at the
entrance.

"I have been asking Mrs. Hilditch's permission to call in Curzon
Street," Francis said boldly.

"I am sure my daughter will be delighted," was the cold but
courteous reply.

Margaret herself made no comment.  The car drew up and she
stepped into it--a tall, slim figure, wonderfully graceful in her
unrelieved black, her hair gleaming as though with some sort of
burnish, as she passed underneath the electric light.  She looked
back at him with a smile of farewell as he stood bareheaded upon
the steps, a smile which reminded him somehow of her father, a
little sardonic, a little tender, having in it some faintly
challenging quality.  The car rolled away.  People around were
gossiping--rather freely.

"The wife of that man Oliver Hilditch," he heard a woman say,
"the man who was tried for murder, and committed suicide the
night after his acquittal.  Why, that can't be much more than
three months ago."

"If you are the daughter of a millionaire," her escort observed,
"you can defy convention."

"Yes, that was Sir Timothy Brast," another man was saying.  "He's
supposed to be worth a cool five millions."

"If the truth about him were known," his companion confided,
dropping his voice, "it would cost him all that to keep out of
the Old Bailey.  They say that his orgies at Hatch End-- Our
taxi.  Come on, Sharpe."

Francis strolled thoughtfully homewards.



CHAPTER XVI


Francis Ledsam was himself again, the lightest-hearted and most
popular member of his club, still a brilliant figure in the
courts, although his appearances there were less frequent, still
devoting the greater portion of his time, to his profession,
although his work in connection with it had become less
spectacular.  One morning, at the corner of Clarges Street and
Curzon Street, about three weeks after his visit to the Opera, he
came face to face with Sir Timothy Brast.

"Well, my altruistic peerer into other people's affairs, how goes
it?" the latter enquired pleasantly.

"How does it seem, my arch-criminal, to be still breathing God's
fresh air?" Francis retorted in the same vein.  "Make the most of
it.  It may not last for ever."

Sir Timothy smiled.  He was looking exceedingly well that
morning, the very prototype of a man contented with life and his
part in it.  He was wearing a morning coat and silk hat, his
patent boots were faultlessly polished, his trousers pressed to
perfection, his grey silk tie neat and fashionable.
Notwithstanding his waxenlike pallor, his slim figure and lithe,
athletic walk seemed to speak of good health.

"You may catch the minnow," he murmured.  "The big fish swim on.
By-the-bye," he added, "I do not notice that your sledge-hammer
blows at crime are having much effect.  Two undetected murders
last week, and one the week before.  What are you about, my
astute friend?"

"Those are matters for Scotland Yard," Francis replied, with an
indifferent little wave of the hand which held his cigarette.
"Details are for the professional.  I seek that corner in Hell
where the thunders are welded and the poison gases mixed.  In
other words, I seek for the brains of crime."

"Believe me, we do not see enough of one another, my young
friend," Sir Timothy said earnestly.  "You interest me more and
more every time we meet.  I like your allegories, I like your
confidence, which in any one except a genius would seem blatant.
When can we dine together and talk about crime?"

"The sooner the better," Francis replied promptly.  "Invite me,
and I will cancel any other engagement I might happen to have."

Sir Timothy considered for a moment.  The June sunshine was
streaming down upon them and the atmosphere was a little
oppressive.

"Will you dine with me at Hatch End to-night?" he asked.  "My
daughter and I will be alone."

"I should be delighted," Francis replied promptly.  "I ought to
tell you, perhaps, that I have called three times upon your
daughter but have not been fortunate enough to find her at home."

Sir Timothy was politely apologetic.

"I fear that my daughter is a little inclined to be morbid," he
confessed.  "Society is good for her.  I will undertake that you
are a welcome guest."

"At what time do I come and how shall I find your house?" Francis
enquired.

"You motor down, I suppose?" Sir Timothy observed.  "Good!  In
Hatch End any one will direct you.  We dine at eight.  You had
better come down as soon as you have finished your day's work.
Bring a suitcase and spend the night."

"I shall be delighted," Francis replied.

"Do not," Sir Timothy continued, "court disappointment by
over-anticipation.  You have without doubt heard of my little
gatherings at Hatch End.  They are viewed, I am told, with grave
suspicion, alike by the moralists of the City and, I fear, the
police.  I am not inviting you to one of those gatherings.  They
are for people with other tastes.  My daughter and I have been
spending a few days alone in the little bungalow by the side of
my larger house.  That is where you will find us--The Sanctuary,
we call it."

"Some day," Francis ventured, "I shall hope to be asked to one of
your more notorious gatherings.  For the present occasion I much
prefer the entertainment you offer."

"Then we are both content," Sir Timothy said, smiling.  "Au
revoir!"


Francis walked across Green Park, along the Mall, down Horse
Guards Parade, along the Embankment to his rooms on the fringe of
the Temple.  Here he found his clerk awaiting his arrival in some
disturbance of spirit.

"There is a young gentleman here to see you, sir," he announced.
"Mr. Reginald Wilmore his name is, I think."

"Wilmore?" Francis repeated.  "What have you done with him?"

"He is in your room, sir.  He seems very impatient.  He has been
out two or three times to know how long I thought you would be."

Francis passed down the stone passage and entered his room, a
large, shady apartment at the back of the building.  To his
surprise it was empty.  He was on the point of calling to his
clerk when he saw that the writing-paper on his desk had been
disturbed.  He went over and read a few lines written in a boy's
hasty writing:

DEAR Mr. LEDSAM:

I am in a very strange predicament and I have come to ask your
advice.  You know my brother Andrew well, and you may remember
playing tennis with me last year.  I am compelled--

At that point the letter terminated abruptly.  There was a blot
and a smudge.  The pen lay where it seemed to have rolled -on the
floor.  The ink was not yet dry.  Francis called to his clerk.

"Angrave," he said, "Mr. Wilmore is not here."

The clerk looked around in obvious surprise.

"It isn't five minutes since he came out to my office, sir!" he
exclaimed.  "I heard him go back again afterwards."

Francis shrugged his shoulders.

"Perhaps he decided not to wait and you didn't hear him go by."

Angrave shook his head.

"I do not see how he could have left the place without my hearing
him, sir," he declared.  "The door of my office has been open all
the time, and I sit opposite to it.  Besides, on these stone
floors one can hear any one so distinctly."

"Then what," Francis asked, "has become of him?"

The clerk shook his head.

"I haven't any idea, sir," he confessed.

Francis plunged into his work and forgot all about the matter.
He was reminded of it, however, at luncheon-time, when, on
entering the dining-room of the club, he saw Andrew Wilmore
seated alone at one of the small tables near the wall.  He went
over to him at once.

"Hullo, Andrew," he greeted him, "what are you doing here by
yourself?"

"Bit hipped, old fellow," was the depressed reply.  "Sit down,
will you?"

Francis sat down and ordered his lunch.

"By-the-bye," he said, "I had rather a mysterious visit this
morning from your brother Reggie."

Wilmore stared at him for a moment, half in relief, half in
amazement.

"Good God, Francis, you don't say so!" he exclaimed.  "How was
he?  What did he want?  Tell me about it at once?  We've been
worried to death about the boy."

"Well, as a matter of fact, I didn't see him," Francis explained.
"He arrived before I reached my rooms--as you know, I don't live
there--waited some time, began to write me this note,"--drawing
the sheet of paper from his pocket--"and when I got there had
disappeared without leaving a message or anything."

Wilmore adjusted his pince nez with trembling fingers.  Then he
read the few lines through.

"Francis," he said, when he had finished them, "do you know that
this is the first word we've heard of him for three days?"

"Great heavens!" Francis exclaimed.  "He was living with his
mother, wasn't he?"

"Down at Kensington, but he hasn't been there since Monday,"
Andrew replied.  "His mother is in a terrible state.  And now
this, I don't understand it at all."

"Was the boy hard up?"

"Not more than most young fellows are," was the puzzled reply.
"His allowance was due in a few days, too.  He had money in the
bank, I feel sure.  He was saving up for a motorcar."

"Haven't I seen him once or twice at restaurants lately?" Francis
enquired.  "Soto's, for instance?"

"Very likely," his brother assented.  "Why not?  He's fond of
dancing, and we none of us ever encouraged him to be a
stay-at-home."

"Any particular girl was he interested in?"

"Not that we know of.  Like most young fellows of his age, he was
rather keen on young women with some connection with the stage,
but I don't believe there was any one in particular.  Reggie was
too fond of games to waste much time that way.  He's at the
gymnasium three evenings a week."

"I wish I'd been at the office a few minutes earlier this
morning," Francis observed.  "I tell you what, Andrew.  I have
some pals down at Scotland Yard, and I'll go down and see them
this afternoon.  They'll want a photograph, and to ask a few
questions, I dare say, but I shouldn't talk about the matter too
much."

"You're very kind, Francis," his friend replied, "but it isn't so
easy to sit tight.  I was going to the police myself this
afternoon."

"Take my advice and leave it to me," Francis begged.  "I have a
particular pal down at Scotland Yard who I know will be
interested, and I want him to take up the case."

"You haven't any theory, I suppose?" Wilmore asked, a little
wistfully.

Francis shook his head.

"Not the ghost of one," he admitted.  "The reason I am advising
you to keep as quiet as possible, though, is just this.  If you
create a lot of interest in a disappearance, you have to satisfy
the public curiosity when the mystery is solved."

"I see," Wilmore murmured.  "All the same, I can't imagine Reggie
getting mixed up in anything discreditable."

"Neither can I, from what I remember of the boy," Francis agreed.
"Let me see, what was he doing in the City?"

"He was with Jameson & Scott, the stockbrokers," Wilmore replied.
"He was only learning the business and he had no
responsibilities.  Curiously enough, though, when I went to see
Mr. Jameson he pointed out one or two little matters that Reggie
had attended to, which looked as though he were clearing up,
somehow or other."

"He left no message there, I suppose?"

"Not a line or a word.  He gave the porter five shillings,
though, on the afternoon before he disappeared--a man who has
done some odd jobs for him."

"Well, a voluntary disappearance is better than an involuntary
one," Francis remarked.  "What was his usual programme when he
left the office?"

"He either went to Queen's and played racquets, or he went
straight to his gymnasium in the Holborn.  I telephoned to
Queen's.  He didn't call there on the Wednesday night, anyhow."

"Where's the gymnasium?"

"At 147 a Holborn.  A lot of city young men go there late in the
evening, but Reggie got off earlier than most of them and used to
have the place pretty well to himself.  I think that's why he
stuck to it."

Francis made a note of the address.

"I'll get Shopland to step down there some time," he said.  "Or
better still, finish your lunch and we'll take a taxi there
ourselves.  I'm going to the country later on, but I've
half-an-hour to spare.  We can go without our coffee and be
there in ten minutes."

"A great idea," Wilmore acquiesced.  "It's probably the last
place Reggie visited, anyway."




CHAPTER XVII


The gymnasium itself was a source of immense surprise to both
Francis and Wilmore.  It stretched along the entire top storey of
a long block of buildings, and was elaborately fitted with
bathrooms, a restaurant and a reading-room.  The trapezes, bars,
and all the usual appointments were of the best possible quality.
The manager, a powerful-looking man dressed with the precision of
the prosperous city magnate, came out of his office to greet
them.

"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" he enquired.

"First of all," Francis replied, "accept our heartiest
congratulations upon your wonderful gymnasium."

The man bowed.

"It is the best appointed in the country, sir," he said proudly.
"Absolutely no expense has been spared in fitting it up.  Every
one of our appliances is of the latest possible description, and
our bathrooms are an exact copy of those in a famous Philadelphia
club."

"What is the subscription?" Wilmore asked.

"Five shillings a year."

"And how many members?"

"Two thousand."

The manager smiled as he saw his two visitors exchange puzzled
glances.

"Needless to say, sir," he added, "we are not self-supporting.
We have very generous patrons."

"I lave heard my brother speak of this place as being quite
wonderful," Wilmore remarked, "but I had no idea that it was upon
this scale."

"Is your brother a member?" the man asked.

"He is.  To tell you the truth, we came here to ask you a
question about him."

"What is his name?"

"Reginald Wilmore.  He was here, I think, last Wednesday night."

While Wilmore talked, Francis watched.  He was conscious of a
curious change in the man's deportment at the mention of Reginald
Wilmore's name.  From being full of bumptious, almost
condescending good-nature, his expression had changed into one of
stony incivility.  There was something almost sinister in the
tightly-closed lips and the suspicious gleam in his eyes.

"What questions did you wish to ask?" he demanded.

"Mr. Reginald Wilmore has disappeared," Francis explained simply.
"He came here on leaving the office last Monday.  He has not been
seen or heard of since."

"Well?" the manager asked.

"We came to ask whether you happen to remember his being here on
that evening, and whether he gave any one here any indication of
his future movements.  We thought, perhaps, that the instructor
who was with him might have some information."

"Not a chance," was the uncompromising reply.  "I remember Mr.
Wilmore being here perfectly.  He was doing double turns on the
high bar.  I saw more of him myself than any one.  I was with him
when he went down to have his swim."

"Did he seem in his usual spirits?" Wilmore ventured.

"I don't notice what spirits my pupils are in," the man answered,
a little insolently.  "There was nothing the matter with him so
far as I know."

"He didn't say anything about going away?"

"Not a word.  You'll excuse me, gentlemen--"

"One moment," Francis interrupted.  "We came here ourselves
sooner than send a detective.  Enquiries are bound to be made as
to the young man's disappearance, and we have reason to know that
this is the last place at which he was heard of.  It is not
unreasonable, therefore, is it, that we should come to you for
information?"

"Reasonable or unreasonable, I haven't got any," the man declared
gruffly.  "If Mr. Wilmore's cleared out, he's cleared out for
some reason of his own.  It's not my business and I don't know
anything about it."

"You understand," Francis persisted, "that our interest in young
Mr. Wilmore is entirely a friendly one?"

"I don't care whether it's friendly or unfriendly.  I tell you I
don't know anything about him.  And," he added, pressing his
thumb upon the button for the lift, "I'll wish you two gentlemen
good afternoon.  I've business to attend to."

Francis looked at him curiously.

"Haven't I seen you somewhere before?" he asked, a little
abruptly.

"I can't say.  My name is John Maclane."

"Heavy-weight champion about seven years ago?"

"I was," the man acknowledged.  "You may have seen me in the
ring.  Now, gentlemen, if you please."

The lift had stopped opposite to them.  The manager's gesture of
dismissal was final.

"I am sorry, Mr. Maclane, if we have annoyed you with our
questions," Francis said.  "I wish you could remember a little
more of Mr. Wilmore's last visit."

"Well, I can't, and that's all there is to it," was the blunt
reply.  "As to being annoyed, I am only annoyed when my time's
wasted.  Take these gents down, Jim.  Good afternoon!"

The door was slammed to and they shot downwards.  Francis turned
to the lift man.

"Do you know a Mr. Wilmore who comes here sometimes?" he asked.

"Not likely!" the man scoffed.  "They're comin' and goin' all the
time from four o'clock in the afternoon till eleven at night.  If
I heard a name I shouldn't remember it.  This way out,
gentlemen."

Wilmore's hand was in his pocket but the man turned deliberately
away.  They walked out into the street.

"For downright incivility," the former observed, "commend me to
the attendants of a young men's gymnasium!"

Francis smiled.

"All the same, old fellow," he said, "if you worry for another
five minutes about Reggie, you're an ass."

At six o'clock that evening Francis turned his two-seater into a
winding drive bordered with rhododendrons, and pulled up before
the porch of a charming two-storied bungalow, covered with
creepers, and with French-windows opening from every room onto
the lawns.  A man-servant who had heard the approach of the car
was already standing in the porch.  Sir Timothy, in white
flannels and a panama hat, strolled across the lawn to greet his
approaching guest.

"Excellently timed, my young friend," he said.  "You will have
time for your first cocktail before you change.  My daughter you
know, of course.  Lady Cynthia Milton I think you also know."

Francis shook hands with the two girls who were lying under the
cedar tree.  Margaret Hilditch seemed to him more wonderful than
ever in her white serge boating clothes.  Lady Cynthia, who had
apparently just arrived from some function in town, was still
wearing muslin and a large hat.

"I am always afraid that Mr. Ledsam will have forgotten me," she
observed, as she gave him her hand.  "The last time I met you was
at the Old Bailey, when you had been cheating the gallows of a
very respectable wife murderer.  Poynings, I think his name was."

"I remember it perfectly," Francis assented.  "We danced together
that night, I remember, at your aunt's, Mrs. Malcolm's, and you
were intensely curious to know how Poynings had spent his
evening."

"Lady Cynthia's reminder is perhaps a little unfortunate," Sir
Timothy observed.  "Mr. Ledsam is no longer the last hope of the
enterprising criminal.  He has turned over a new leaf.  To secure
the services of his silver tongue, you have to lay at his feet no
longer the bags of gold from your ill-gotten gains but the white
flower of the blameless life."

"This is all in the worst possible taste," Margaret Hilditch
declared, in her cold, expressionless tone.  "You might consider
my feelings."

Lady Cynthia only laughed.

"My dear Margaret," she said, "if I thought that you had any, I
should never believe that you were your father's daughter.
Here's to them, anyway," she added, accepting the cocktail from
the tray which the butler had just brought out.  "Mr. Ledsam, are
you going to attach yourself to me, or has Margaret annexed you?"

"I have offered myself to Mrs. Hilditch," Francis rejoined
promptly, "but so far I have made no impression."

"Try her with a punt and a concertina after dinner," Lady Cynthia
suggested.  "After all, I came down here to better my
acquaintance with my host.  You flirted with me disgracefully
when I was a debutante, and have never taken any notice of me
since.  I hate infidelity in a man.  Sir Timothy, I shall devote
myself to you.  Can you play a concertina?"

"Where the higher forms of music are concerned," he replied, "I
have no technical ability.  I should prefer to sit at your feet."

"While I punt, I suppose?"

"There are backwaters," he suggested.

Lady Cynthia sipped her cocktail appreciatively.

"I wonder how it is," she observed, "that in these days, although
we have become callous to everything else in life, cocktails and
flirtations still attract us.  You shall take me to a backwater
after dinner, Sir Timothy.  I shall wear my silver-grey and take
an armful of those black cushions from the drawing-room.  In that
half light, there is no telling what success I may not achieve."

Sir Timothy sighed.

"Alas!" he said, "before dinner is over you will probably have
changed your mind."

"Perhaps so," she admitted, "but you must remember that Mr.
Ledsam is my only alternative, and I am not at all sure that he
likes me.  I am not sufficiently Victorian for his taste."

The dressing-bell rang.  Sir Timothy passed his arm through
Francis'.

"The sentimental side of my domain;" he said, "the others may
show you.  My rose garden across the stream has been very much
admired.  I am now going to give you a glimpse of The Walled
House, an edifice the possession of which has made me more or
less famous."

He led the way through a little shrubbery, across a further strip
of garden and through a door in a high wall, which he opened with
a key attached to his watch-chain.  They were in an open park
now, studded with magnificent trees, in the further corner of
which stood an imposing mansion, with a great domed roof in the
centre, and broad stone terraces, one of which led down to the
river.  The house itself was an amazingly blended mixture of old
and new, with great wings supported by pillars thrown out on
either side.  It seemed to have been built without regard to any
definite period of architecture, and yet to have attained a
certain coherency--a far-reaching structure, with long lines of
outbuildings.  In the park itself were a score or more of horses,
and in the distance beyond a long line of loose boxes with open
doors.  Even as they stood there, a grey sorrel mare had trotted
up to their side and laid her head against Sir Timothy's
shoulder.  He caressed her surreptitiously, affecting not to
notice the approach of other animals from all quarters.

"Let me introduce you to The Walled House," its owner observed,
"so called, I imagine, because this wall, which is a great deal
older than you or I, completely encloses the estate.  Of course,
you remember the old house, The Walled Palace, they called it?
It belonged for many years to the Lynton family, and afterwards
to the Crown."

"I remember reading of your purchase," Francis said, "and of
course I remember the old mansion.  You seem to have wiped it out
pretty effectually."

"I was obliged to play the vandal," his host confessed.  "In its
previous state, the house was picturesque but uninhabitable.  As
you see it now, it is an exact reproduction of the country home
of one of the lesser known of the Borgias--Sodina, I believe the
lady's name was.  You will find inside some beautiful arches, and
a sense of space which all modern houses lack.  It cost me a
great deal of money, and it is inhabited, when I am in Europe,
about once a fortnight.  You know the river name for it?
'Timothy's Folly!"'

"But what on earth made you build it, so long as you don't care
to live there?" Francis enquired.

Sir Timothy smiled reflectively.

"Well," he explained, "I like sometimes to entertain, and I like
to entertain, when I do, on a grand scale.  In London, if I give
a party, the invitations are almost automatic.  I become there a
very insignificant link in the chain of what is known as Society,
and Society practically helps itself to my entertainment, and
sees that everything is done according to rule.  Down here things
are entirely different.  An invitation to The Walled House is a
personal matter.  Society has nothing whatever to do with my
functions here.  The reception-rooms, too, are arranged according
to my own ideas.  I have, as you may have heard, the finest
private gymnasium in England.  The ballroom and music-room and
private theatre, too, are famous."

"And do you mean to say that you keep that huge place empty?"
Francis asked curiously.

"I have a suite of rooms there which I occasionally occupy," Sir
Timothy replied, "and there are always thirty or forty servants
and attendants of different sorts who have their quarters there.
I suppose that my daughter and I would be there at the present
moment but for the fact that we own this cottage.  Both she and
I, for residential purposes, prefer the atmosphere there."

"I scarcely wonder at it," Francis agreed.

They were surrounded now by various quadrupeds.  As well as the
horses, half-a-dozen of which were standing patiently by Sir
Timothy's side, several dogs had made their appearance and after
a little preliminary enthusiasm had settled down at his feet.
He leaned over and whispered something in the ear of the mare who
had come first.  She trotted off, and the others followed suit in
a curious little procession.  Sir Timothy watched them, keeping
his head turned away from Francis.

"You recognise the mare the third from the end?" he pointed out.
"That is the animal I bought in Covent Garden.  You see how she
has filled out?"

"I should never have recognised her," the other confessed.

"Even Nero had his weaknesses," Sir Timothy remarked, waving the
dogs away.  "My animals' quarters are well worth a visit, if you
have time.  There is a small hospital, too, which is quite up to
date."

"Do any of the horses work at all?" Francis asked.

Sir Timothy smiled.

"I will tell you a very human thing about my favourites," he
said.  "In the gardens on the other side of the house we have
very extensive lawns, and my head groom thought he would make use
of one of a my horses who had recovered from a serious accident
and was really quite a strong beast, for one of the machines.  He
found the idea quite a success, and now he no sooner appears in
the park with a halter than, instead of stampeding, practically
every one of those horses comes cantering up with the true
volunteering spirit.  The one which he selects, arches his neck
and goes off to work with a whole string of the others following.
Dodsley--that is my groom's name--tells me that he does a great
deal more mowing now than he need, simply because they worry him
for the work.  Gratitude, you see, Mr. Ledsam, sheer gratitude.
If you were to provide a dozen alms-houses for your poor
dependants, I wonder how many of them would be anxious to mow
your lawn....  Come, let me show you your room now."

They passed back through the postern-gate into the gardens of The
Sanctuary.  Sir Timothy led the way towards the house.

"I am glad that you decided to spend the night, Mr. Ledsam," he
said.  "The river sounds a terribly hackneyed place to the
Londoner, but it has beauties which only those who live with it
can discover.  Mind your head.  My ceilings are low."

Francis followed his host along many passages, up and down
stairs, until he reached a little suite of rooms at the extreme
end of the building.  The man-servant who had unpacked his bag
stood waiting.  Sir Timothy glanced around critically.

"Small but compact," he remarked.  "There is a little sitting-room
down that stair, and a bathroom beyond.  If the flowers annoy you,
throw them out of the window.  And if you prefer to bathe in the
river to-morrow morning, Brooks here will show you the diving pool.
I am wearing a short coat myself to-night, but do as you please.
We dine at half-past eight."

Sir Timothy disappeared with a courteous little inclination of the
head.  Francis dismissed the manservant at once as being out of
keeping with his quaint and fascinating surroundings.  The tiny
room with its flowers, its perfume of lavender, its old-fashioned
chintzes, and its fragrant linen, might still have been a room in
a cottage.  The sitting-room, with its veranda looking down upon
the river, was provided with cigars, whisky and soda and
cigarettes; a bookcase, with a rare copy of Rabelais, an original
Surtees, a large paper Decameron, and a few other classics.  Down
another couple of steps was a perfectly white bathroom, with shower
and plunge.  Francis wandered from room to room, and finally threw
himself into a chair on the veranda to smoke a cigarette.  From
the river below him came now and then the sound of voices.  Through
the trees on his right he could catch a glimpse, here and there, of
the strange pillars and green domed roof of the Borghese villa.




CHAPTER XVIII


It was one of those faultless June evenings when the only mission
of the faintly stirring breeze seems to be to carry perfumes from
garden to garden and to make the lightest of music amongst the
rustling leaves.  The dinner-table had been set out of doors,
underneath the odorous cedar-tree.  Above, the sky was an arc of
the deepest blue through which the web of stars had scarcely yet
found its way.  Every now and then came the sound of the splash
of oars from the river; more rarely still, the murmur of light
voices as a punt passed up the stream.  The little party at The
Sanctuary sat over their coffee and liqueurs long after the fall
of the first twilight, till the points of their cigarettes glowed
like little specks of fire through the enveloping darkness.
Conversation had been from the first curiously desultory, edited,
in a way, Francis felt, for his benefit.  There was an atmosphere
about his host and Lady Cynthia, shared in a negative way by
Margaret Hilditch, which baffled Francis.  It seemed to establish
more than a lack of sympathy--to suggest, even, a life lived upon
a different plane.  Yet every now and then their references to
everyday happenings were trite enough.  Sir Timothy had assailed
the recent craze for drugs, a diatribe to which Lady Cynthia had
listened in silence for reasons which Francis could surmise.

"If one must soothe the senses," Sir Timothy declared, "for the
purpose of forgetting a distasteful or painful present, I cannot
see why the average mind does not turn to the contemplation of
beauty in some shape or other.  A night like to-night is surely
sedative enough.  Watch these lights, drink in these perfumes,
listen to the fall and flow of the water long enough, and you
would arrive at precisely the same mental inertia as though you
had taken a dose of cocaine, with far less harmful an aftermath."

Lady Cynthia shrugged her shoulders.

"Cocaine is in one's dressing-room," she objected, "and beauty is
hard to seek in Grosvenor Square."

"The common mistake of all men," Sir Timothy continued, "and
women, too, for the matter of that, is that we will persist in
formulating doctrines for other people.  Every man or woman is an
entity of humanity, with a separate heaven and a separate hell.
No two people can breathe the same air in the same way, or see
the same picture with the same eyes."

Lady Cynthia rose to her feet and shook out the folds of her
diaphanous gown, daring alike in its shapelessness and
scantiness.  She lit a cigarette and laid her hand upon Sir
Timothy's arm.

"Come," she said, "must I remind you of your promise?  You are to
show me the stables at The Walled House before it is dark."

"You would see them better in the morning," he reminded her,
rising with some reluctance to his feet.

"Perhaps," she answered, "but I have a fancy to see them now."

Sir Timothy looked back at the table.

"Margaret," he said, "will you look after Mr. Ledsam for a little
time?  You will excuse us, Ledsam?  We shall not be gone long."

They moved away together towards the shrubbery and the door in
the wall behind.  Francis resumed his seat.

"Are you not also curious to penetrate the mysteries behind the
wall, Mr. Ledsam?" Margaret asked.

"Not so curious but that I would much prefer to remain here," he
answered.

"With me?"

"With you."

She knocked the ash from her cigarette.  She was looking directly
at him, and he fancied that there was a gleam of curiosity in her
beautiful eyes.  There was certainly a little more abandon about
her attitude.  She was leaning back in a corner of her high-backed
chair, and her gown, although it lacked the daring of Lady Cynthia's,
seemed to rest about her like a cloud of blue-grey smoke.

"What a curious meal!" she murmured.  "Can you solve a puzzle for
me, Mr. Ledsam?"

"I would do anything for you that I could," he answered.

"Tell me, then, why my father asked you here to-night?  I can
understand his bringing you to the opera, that was just a whim of
the moment, but an invitation down here savours of deliberation.
Studiously polite though you are to one another, one is conscious
all the time of the hostility beneath the surface."

"I think that so far as your father is concerned, it is part of
his peculiar disposition," Francis replied.  "You remember he
once said that he was tired of entertaining his friends--that
there was more pleasure in having an enemy at the board."

"Are you an enemy, Mr. Ledsam?" she asked curiously.

He rose a little abruptly to his feet, ignoring her question.
There were servants hovering in the background.

"Will you walk with me in the gardens?" he begged.  "Or may I
take you upon the river?"

She rose to her feet.  For a moment she seemed to hesitate.

"The river, I think," she decided.  "Will you wait for three
minutes while I get a wrap.  You will find some punts moored to
the landing-stage there in the stream.  I like the very largest
and most comfortable."

Francis strolled to the edge of the stream, and made his choice
of punts.  Soon a servant appeared with his arms full of
cushions, and a moment or two later, Margaret herself, wrapped in
an ermine cloak.  She smiled a little deprecatingly as she picked
her way across the lawn.

"Don't laugh at me for being such a chilly mortal, please," she
enjoined.  "And don't be afraid that I am going to propose a long
expedition.  I want to go to a little backwater in the next
stream."

She settled herself in the stern and they glided down the narrow
thoroughfare.  The rose bushes from the garden almost lapped the
water as they passed.  Behind, the long low cottage, the deserted
dinner-table, the smooth lawn with its beds of scarlet geraniums
and drooping lilac shrubs in the background, seemed like a scene
from fairyland, to attain a perfection of detail unreal, almost
theatrical.

"To the right when you reach the river, please," she directed.
"You will find there is scarcely any current.  We turn up the
next stream."

There was something almost mysterious, a little impressive, about
the broad expanse of river into which they presently turned.
Opposite were woods and then a sloping lawn.  From a house hidden
in the distance they heard the sound of a woman singing.  They
even caught the murmurs of applause as she concluded.  Then there
was silence, only the soft gurgling of the water cloven by the
punt pole.  They glided past the front of the great unlit house,
past another strip of woodland, and then up a narrow stream.

"To the left here," she directed, "and then stop."

They bumped against the bank.  The little backwater into which
they had turned seemed to terminate in a bed of lilies whose
faint fragrance almost enveloped them.  The trees on either side
made a little arch of darkness.

"Please ship your pole and listen," Margaret said dreamily.
"Make yourself as comfortable as you can.  There are plenty of
cushions behind you.  This is where I come for silence."

Francis obeyed her orders without remark.  For a few moments,
speech seemed impossible.  The darkness was so intense that
although he was acutely conscious of her presence there, only a
few feet away, nothing but the barest outline of her form was
visible.  The silence which she had brought him to seek was all
around them.  There was just the faintest splash of water from
the spot where the stream and the river met, the distant barking
of a dog, the occasional croaking of a frog from somewhere in the
midst of the bed of lilies.  Otherwise the silence and the
darkness were like a shroud.  Francis leaned forward in his
place.  His hands, which gripped the sides of the punt, were hot.
The serenity of the night mocked him.

"So this is your paradise," he said, a little hoarsely.

She made no answer.  Her silence seemed to him more thrilling
than words.  He leaned forward.  His hands fell upon the soft fur
which encompassed her.  They rested there.  Still she did not
speak.  He tightened his grasp, moved further forward, the
passion surging through his veins, his breath almost failing him.
He was so near now that he heard her breathing, saw her face, as
pale as ever.  Her lips were a little parted, her eyes looked
out, as it seemed to him, half in fear, half in hope.  He bent
lower still.  She neither shrank away nor invited him.

"Dear!" he whispered.

Her arms stole from underneath the cloak, her fingers rested upon
his shoulders.  He scarcely knew whether it was a caress or
whether she were holding him from her.  In any case it was too
late.  With a little sob of passion his lips were pressed to
hers.  Even as she closed her eyes, the scent of the lilies
seemed to intoxicate him.

He was back in his place without conscious movement.  His pulses
were quivering, the passion singing in his blood, the joy of her
faint caress living proudly in his memory.  It had been the
moment of his life, and yet even now he felt sick at heart with
fears, with the torment of her passiveness.  She had lain there
in his arms, he had felt the thrill of her body, some quaint
inspiration had told him that she had sought for joy in that
moment and had not wholly failed.  Yet his anxiety was
tumultuous, overwhelming.  Then she spoke, and his heart leaped
again.  Her voice was more natural.  It was not a voice which he
had ever heard before.

"Give me a cigarette, please--and I want to go back."

He leaned over her again, struck a match with trembling fingers
and gave her the cigarette.  She smiled at him very faintly.

"Please go back now," she begged.  "Smoke yourself, take me home
slowly and say nothing."

He obeyed, but his knees were shaking when he stood up.  Slowly,
a foot at a time, they passed from the mesh of the lilies out
into the broad stream.  Almost as they did so, the yellow rim of
the moon came up over the low hills.  As they turned into their
own stream, the light was strong enough for him to see her face.
She lay there like a ghost, her eyes half closed, the only touch
of colour in the shining strands of her beautiful hair.  She
roused herself a little as they swung around.  He paused, leaning
upon the pole.

"You are not angry?" he asked.

"No, I am not angry," she answered.  "Why should I be?  But I
cannot talk to you about it tonight."

They glided to the edge of the landing-stage.  A servant appeared
and secured the punt.

"Is Sir Timothy back yet?" Margaret enquired.

"Not yet, madam."

She turned to Francis.

"Please go and have a whisky and soda in the smoking-room," she
said, pointing to the open French windows.  "I am going to my
favourite seat.  You will find me just across the bridge there."

He hesitated, filled with a passionate disinclination to leave
her side even for a moment.  She seemed to understand but she
pointed once more to the room.

"I should like very much," she added, "to be alone for five
minutes.  If you will come and find me then--please!"

Francis stepped through the French windows into the smoking-room,
where all the paraphernalia for satisfying thirst were set out
upon the sideboard.  He helped himself to whisky and soda and
drank it absently, with his eyes fixed upon the clock.  In five
minutes he stepped once more back into the gardens, soft and
brilliant now in the moonlight.  As he did so, he heard the click
of the gate in the wall, and footsteps.  His host, with Lady
Cynthia upon his arm, came into sight and crossed the lawn
towards him.  Francis, filled though his mind was with other
thoughts, paused for a moment and glanced towards them curiously.
Lady Cynthia seemed for a moment to have lost all her weariness.
Her eyes were very bright, she walked with a new spring in her
movements.  Even her voice, as she addressed Francis, seemed
altered.

"Sir Timothy has been showing me some of the wonders of his
villa--do you call it a villa or a palace?" she asked.

"It is certainly not a palace," Sir Timothy protested, "and I
fear that it has scarcely the atmosphere of a villa.  It is an
attempt to combine certain ideas of my own with the requirements
of modern entertainment.  Come and have a drink with us, Ledsam."

"I have just had one," Francis replied.  "Mrs. Hilditch is in the
rose garden and I am on my way to join her."

He passed on and the two moved towards the open French windows.
He crossed the rustic bridge that led into the flower garden,
turned down the pergola and came to a sudden standstill before
the seat which Margaret had indicated.  It was empty, but in the
corner lay the long-stalked lily which she had picked in the
backwater.  He stood there for a moment, transfixed.  There were
other seats and chairs in the garden, but he knew before he
started his search that it was in vain.  She had gone.  The
flower, drooping a little now though the stalk was still wet with
the moisture of the river, seemed to him like her farewell.




CHAPTER XIX


Francis was surprised, when he descended for breakfast the next
morning, to find the table laid for one only.  The butler who was
waiting, handed him the daily papers and wheeled the electric
heater to his side.

"Is no one else breakfasting?" Francis asked.

"Sir Timothy and Mrs. Hilditch are always served in their rooms,
sir.  Her ladyship is taking her coffee upstairs."

Francis ate his breakfast, glanced through the Times, lit a
cigarette and went round to the garage for his car.  The butler
met him as he drove up before the porch.

"Sir Timothy begs you to excuse him this morning, sir," he
announced.  "His secretary has arrived from town with a very
large correspondence which they are now engaged upon."

"And Mrs. Hilditch?" Francis ventured.

"I have not seen her maid this morning, sir," the man replied,
"but Mrs. Hilditch never rises before midday.  Sir Timothy hopes
that you slept well, sir, and would like you to sign the
visitors' book."

Francis signed his name mechanically, and was turning away when
Lady Cynthia called to him from the stairs.  She was dressed for
travelling and followed by a maid, carrying her dressing-case.

"Will you take me up to town, Mr. Ledsam?" she asked.

"Delighted," he answered.

Their dressing-cases were strapped together behind and Lady
Cynthia sank into the cushions by his side.  They drove away from
the house, Francis with a backward glance of regret.  The striped
sun-blinds had been lowered over all the windows, thrushes and
blackbirds were twittering on the lawn, the air was sweet with
the perfume of flowers, a boatman was busy with the boats.  Out
beyond, through the trees, the river wound its placid way.

"Quite a little paradise," Lady Cynthia murmured.

"Delightful," her companion assented.  "I suppose great wealth
has its obligations, but why any human being should rear such a
structure as what he calls his Borghese villa, when he has a
charming place like that to live in, I can't imagine."

Her silence was significant, almost purposeful.  She unwound the
veil from her motoring turban, took it off altogether and
attached it to the cushions of the car with a hatpin.

"There," she said, leaning back, "you can now gaze upon a
horrible example to the young women of to-day.  You can see the
ravages which late hours, innumerable cocktails, a thirst for
excitement, a contempt of the simple pleasures of life, have
worked upon my once comely features.  I was quite good-looking,
you know, in the days you first knew me."

"You were the most beautiful debutante of your season," he
agreed.

"What do you think of me now?" she asked.

She met his gaze without flinching.  Her face was unnaturally
thin, with disfiguring hollows underneath her cheekbones; her
lips lacked colour; even her eyes were lustreless.  Her hair
seemed to lack brilliancy.  Only her silken eyebrows remained
unimpaired, and a certain charm of expression which nothing
seemed able to destroy.

"You look tired," he said.

"Be honest, my dear man," she rejoined drily.  "I am a physical
wreck, dependent upon cosmetics for the looks which I am still
clever enough to palm off on the uninitiated."

"Why don't you lead a quieter life?" he asked.  "A month or so in
the country would put you all right."

She laughed a little hardly.  Then for a moment she looked at him
appraisingly.

"I was going to speak to you of nerves," she said, "but how would
you ever understand?  You look as though you had not a nerve in
your body.  I can't think how you manage it, living in London.  I
suppose you do exercises and take care of what you eat and
drink."

"I do nothing of the sort," he assured her indignantly.  "I eat
and drink whatever I fancy.  I have always had a direct object in
life--my work--and I believe that has kept me fit and well.
Nerve troubles come as a rule, I think, from the under-used
brain."

"I must have been born with a butterfly disposition," she said.
"I am quite sure that mine come because I find it so hard to be
amused.  I am sure I am most enterprising.  I try whatever comes
along, but nothing satisfies me."

"Why not try being in love with one of these men who've been in
love with you all their lives?"

She laughed bitterly.

"The men who have cared for me and have been worth caring about,"
she said, "gave me up years ago.  I mocked at them when they were
in earnest, scoffed at sentiment, and told them frankly that when
I married it would only be to find a refuge for broader life.
The right sort wouldn't have anything to say to me after that,
and I do not blame them.  And here is the torture of it.  I can't
stand the wrong sort near me--physically, I mean.  Mind, I
believe I'm attracted towards people with criminal tastes and
propensities.  I believe that is what first led me towards Sir
Timothy.  Every taste I ever had in life seems to have become
besmirched.  I'm all the time full of the craving to do horrible
things, but all the same I can't bear to be touched.  That's the
torment of it.  I wonder if you can understand?"

"I think I can," he answered.  "Your trouble lies in having the
wrong friends and in lack of self-discipline.  If you were my
sister, I'd take you away for a fortnight and put you on the road
to being cured."

"Then I wish I were your sister," she sighed.

"Don't think I'm unsympathetic," he went on, "because I'm not.
Wait till we've got into the main road here and I'll try and
explain."

They were passing along a country lane, so narrow that twigs
from the hedges, wreathed here and there in wild roses, brushed
almost against their cheeks.  On their left was the sound of a
reaping-machine and the perfume of new-mown hay.  The sun was
growing stronger at every moment.  A transitory gleam of pleasure
softened her face.

"It is ages since I smelt honeysuckle," she confessed, "except in
a perfumer's shop.  I was wondering what it reminded me of."

"That," he said, as they turned out into the broad main road,
with its long vista of telegraph poles, "is because you have been
neglecting the real for the sham, flowers themselves for their
artificially distilled perfume.  What I was going to try and put
into words without sounding too priggish, Lady Cynthia," he went
on, "is this.  It is just you people who are cursed with a
restless brain who are in the most dangerous position, nowadays.
The things which keep us healthy and normal physically--games,
farces, dinner-parties of young people, fresh air and exercise
--are the very things which after a time fail to satisfy the
person with imagination.  You want more out of life, always the
something you don't understand, the something beyond.  And so you
keep on trying new things, and for every new thing you try, you
drop an old one.  Isn't it something like that?"

"I suppose it is," she admitted wearily.

"Drugs take the place of wholesome wine," he went on, warming to
his subject.  "The hideous fascination of flirting with the
uncouth or the impossible some way or another, stimulates a
passion which simple means have ceased to gratify.  You seek for
the unusual in every way--in food, in the substitution of
absinthe for your harmless Martini, of cocaine for your
stimulating champagne.  There is a horrible wave of all this
sort of thing going on to-day in many places, and I am afraid,"
he concluded, "that a great many of our very nicest young women
are caught up in it."

"Guilty," she confessed. "Now cure me."

"I could point out the promised land, but how, could I lead you
to it?" he answered.

"You don't like me well enough," she sighed.

"I like you better than you believe," he assured her, slackening
his speed a little.  "We have met, I suppose, a dozen times in
our lives.  I have danced with you here and there, talked
nonsense once, I remember, at a musical reception--"

"I tried to flirt with you then," she interrupted.

He nodded.

"I was in the midst of a great case," he said, "and everything
that happened to me outside it was swept out of my mind day by
day.  What I was going to say is that I have always liked you,
from the moment when your mother presented me to you at your
first dance."

"I wish you'd told me so," she murmured.

"It wouldn't have made any difference," he declared.  "I wasn't
in a position to think of a duke's daughter, in those days.  I
don't suppose I am now."

"Try," she begged hopefully.

He smiled back at her.  The reawakening of her sense of humour
was something.

"Too late," he regretted.  "During the last month or so the thing
has come to me which we all look forward to, only I don't think
fate has treated me kindly.  I have always loved normal ways and
normal people, and the woman I care for is different."

"Tell me about her?" she insisted.

"You will be very surprised when I tell you her name," he said.
"It is Margaret Hilditch."

She looked at him for a moment in blank astonishment.

"Heavens!" she exclaimed.  "Oliver Hilditch's wife!"

"I can't help that," he declared, a little doggedly.  "She's had
a miserable time, I know.  She was married to a scamp.  I'm not
quite sure that her father isn't as bad a one.  Those things
don't make any difference."

"They wouldn't with you," she said softly.  "Tell me, did you say
anything to her last night?"

"I did," he replied.  "I began when we were out alone together.
She gave me no encouragement to speak of, but at any rate she
knows."

Lady Cynthia leaned a little forward in her place.

"Do you know where she is now?"

He was a little startled.

"Down at the cottage, I suppose.  The butler told me that she
never rose before midday."

"Then for once the butler was mistaken," his companion told him.
"Margaret Hilditch left at six o'clock this morning.  I saw her
in travelling clothes get into the car and drive away."

"She left the cottage this morning before us?" Francis repeated,
amazed.

"I can assure you that she did," Lady Cynthia insisted.  "I never
sleep, amongst my other peculiarities," she went on bitterly,
"and I was lying on a couch by the side of the open window when
the car came for her.  She stopped it at the bend of the avenue
--so that it shouldn't wake us up, I suppose.  I saw her get in
and drive away."

Francis was silent for several moments.  Lady Cynthia watched him
curiously.

"At any rate," she observed, "in whatever mood she went away this
morning, you have evidently succeeded in doing what I have never
seen any one else do--breaking through her indifference.  I
shouldn't have thought that anything short of an earthquake would
have stirred Margaret, these days."

"These days?" he repeated quickly.  "How long have you known
her?"

"We were at school together for a short time," she told him.  "It
was while her father was in South America.  Margaret was a very
different person in those days."

"However was she induced to marry a person like Oliver Hilditch?"
Francis speculated.

His companion shrugged her shoulders.

"Who knows?" she answered indifferently.  "Are you going to drop
me?"

"Wherever you like."

"Take me on to Grosvenor Square, if you will, then," she begged,
"and deposit me at the ancestral mansion.  I am really rather
annoyed about Margaret," she went on, rearranging her veil.  "I
had begun to have hopes that you might have revived my taste for
normal things."

"If I had had the slightest intimation--" he murmured.

"It would have made no difference," she interrupted dolefully.
"Now I come to think of it, the Margaret whom I used to know--and
there must be plenty of her left yet--is just the right type of
woman for you."

They drew up outside the house in Grosvenor Square.  Lady Cynthia
held out her hand.

"Come and see me one afternoon, will you?" she invited.

"I'd like to very much," he replied.

She lingered on the steps and waved her hand to him--a graceful,
somewhat insolent gesture.

"All the same, I think I shall do my best to make you forget
Margaret," she called out.  "Thanks for the lift up.  A bientot!"




CHAPTER XX


Francis drove direct from Grosvenor Square to his chambers in the
Temple, and found Shopland, his friend from Scotland Yard,
awaiting his arrival.

"Any news?" Francis enquired.

"Nothing definite, I am sorry, to say," was the other's reluctant
admission.

Francis hung up his hat, threw himself into his easy-chair and
lit a cigarette.

"The lad's brother is one of my oldest friends, Shopland," he
said.  "He is naturally in a state of great distress."

The detective scratched his chin thoughtfully.

"I said 'nothing definite' just now, sir," he observed.  "As a
rule, I never mention suspicions, but with you it is a different
matter.  I haven't discovered the slightest trace of Mr. Reginald
Wilmore, or the slightest reason for his disappearance.  He seems
to have been a well-conducted young gentleman, a little
extravagant, perhaps, but able to pay his way and with nothing
whatever against him.  Nothing whatever, that is to say, except
one almost insignificant thing."

"And that?"

"A slight tendency towards bad company, sir.  I have heard of his
being about with one or two whom we are keeping our eye upon."

"Bobby Fairfax's lot, by any chance?"

Shopland nodded.

"He was with Jacks and Miss Daisy Hyslop, a night or two before
he disappeared.  I am not sure that a young man named Morse
wasn't of the party, too."

"What do you make of that lot?" Francis asked curiously.  "Are
they gamesters, dope fiends, or simply vicious?"

The detective was silent.  He was gazing intently at his rather
square-toed shoes.

"There are rumours, sir," he said, presently, "of things going on
in the West End which want looking into very badly--very badly
indeed.  You will remember speaking to me of Sir Timothy Brast?"

"I remember quite well," Francis acknowledged.

"I've nothing to go on," the other continued.  "I am working
almost on your own lines, Mr. Ledsam, groping in the dark to find
a clue, as it were, but I'm beginning to have ideas about Sir
Timothy Brast, just ideas."

"As, for instance?"

"Well, he stands on rather queer terms with some of his
acquaintances, sir.  Now you saw, down at Soto's Bar, the night
we arrested Mr. Fairfax, that not one of those young men there
spoke to Sir Timothy as though they were acquainted, nor he to
them.  Yet I happened to find out that every one of them,
including Mr. Fairfax himself, was present at a party Sir Timothy
Brast gave at his house down the river a week or two before."

"I'm afraid there isn't much in that," Francis declared.  "Sir
Timothy has the name of being an eccentric person everywhere,
especially in this respect--he never notices acquaintances.  I
heard, only the other day, that while he was wonderfully
hospitable and charming to all his guests, he never remembered
them outside his house."

Shopland nodded.

"A convenient eccentricity," he remarked, a little drily.  "I
have heard the same thing myself.  You spent the night at his
country cottage, did you not, Mr. Ledsam?  Did he offer to show
you over The Walled House?"

"How the dickens did you know I was down there?" Francis
demanded, with some surprise.  "I was just thinking as I drove up
that I hadn't left my address either here or at Clarges Street."

"Next time you visit Sir Timothy," the detective observed, "I
should advise you to do so.  I knew you were there, Mr. Ledsam,
because I was in the neighbourhood myself.  I have been doing a
little fishing, and keeping my eye on that wonderful estate of
Sir Timothy's."

Francis was interested.

"Shopland," he said, "I believe that our intelligences, such as
they are, are akin."

"What do you suspect Sir Timothy of?" the detective asked
bluntly.

"I suspect him of nothing," Francis replied.  "He is simply, to
my mind, an incomprehensible, somewhat sinister figure, who might
be capable of anything.  He may have very excellent qualities
which he contrives to conceal, or he may be an arch-criminal.  His
personality absolutely puzzles me."

There was a knock at the door and Angrave appeared.  Apparently
he had forgotten Shopland's presence, for he ushered in another
visitor.

"Sir Timothy Brast to see you, sir," he announced.

The moment was one of trial to every one, admirably borne.
Shopland remained in his chair, with only a casual glance at the
newcomer.  Francis rose to his feet with a half-stifled
expression of anger at the clumsiness of his clerk.  Sir Timothy,
well-shaven and groomed, attired in a perfectly-fitting suit of
grey flannel, nodded to Francis in friendly fashion and laid his
Homburg hat upon the table with the air of a familiar.

"My dear Ledsam," he said, "I do hope that you will excuse this
early call.  I could only have been an hour behind you on the
road.  I dare say you can guess what I have come to see you
about.  Can we have a word together?"

"Certainly," was the ready reply.  "You remember my friend
Shopland, Sir Timothy?  It was Mr. Shopland who arrested young
Fairfax that night at Soto's."

"I remember him perfectly," Sir Timothy declared.  "I fancied,
directly I entered, that your face was familiar," he added,
turning to Shopland.  "I am rather ashamed of myself about that
night.  My little outburst must have sounded almost ridiculous to
you two.  To tell you the truth, I quite failed at that time to
give Mr. Ledsam credit for gifts which I have since discovered
him to possess."

"Mr. Shopland and I are now discussing another matter," Francis
went on, pushing a box of cigarettes towards Sir Timothy, who was
leaning against the table in an easy attitude.  "Don't go,
Shopland, for a minute.  We were consulting together about the
disappearance of a young man, Reggie Wilmore, the brother of a
friend of mine--Andrew Wilmore, the novelist."

"Disappearance?" Sir Timothy repeated, as he lit a cigarette.
"That is rather a vague term."

"The young man has been missing from home for over a week,"
Francis said, "and left no trace whatever of his whereabouts.
He was not in financial trouble, he does not seem to have been
entangled with any young woman, he had not quarrelled with his
people, and he seems to have been on the best of terms with the
principal at the house of business where he was employed.  His
disappearance, therefore, is, to say the least of it, mysterious."

Sir Timothy assented gravely.

"The lack of motive to which you allude," he pointed out, "makes
the case interesting.  Still, one must remember that London is
certainly the city of modern mysteries.  If a new 'Arabian
Nights' were written, it might well be about London.  I dare say
Mr. Shopland will agree with me," he continued, turning
courteously towards the detective, "that disappearances of this
sort are not nearly so uncommon as the uninitiated would believe.
For one that is reported in the papers, there are half-a-dozen
which are not.  Your late Chief Commissioner, by-the-bye," he
added meditatively, "once a very intimate friend of mine, was my
informant."

"Where do you suppose they disappear to?" Francis enquired.

"Who can tell?" was the speculative reply.  "For an adventurous
youth there are a thousand doors which lead to romance.  Besides,
the lives of none of us are quite so simple as they seem.  Even
youth has its secret chapters.  This young man, for instance,
might be on his way to Australia, happy in the knowledge that he
has escaped from some murky chapter of life which will now never
be known.  He may write to his friends, giving them a hint.  The
whole thing will blow over."

"There may be cases such as you suggest, Sir Timothy," the
detective said quietly.  "Our investigations, so far as regards
the young man in question, however, do not point that way."

Sir Timothy turned over his cigarette to look at the name of the
maker.

"Excellent tobacco," he murmured.  "By-the-bye, what did you say
the young man's name was?"

"Reginald Wilmore," Francis told him.

"A good name," Sir Timothy murmured.  "I am sure I wish you both
every good fortune in your quest.  Would it be too much to ask
you now, Mr. Ledsam, for that single minute alone?"

"By no means," Francis answered.

"I'll wait in the office, if I may," Shopland suggested, rising
to his feet.  "I want to have another word with you before I go."

"My business with Mr. Ledsam is of a family nature," Sir Timothy
said apologetically, as Shopland passed out.  "I will not keep
him for more than a moment."

Shopland closed the door behind him.  Sir Timothy waited until he
heard his departing footsteps.  Then he turned back to Francis.

"Mr. Ledsam," he said, "I have come to ask you if you know
anything of my daughter's whereabouts?"

"Nothing whatever," Francis replied.  "I was on the point of
ringing you up to ask you the same question."

"Did she tell you that she was leaving The Sanctuary?"

"She gave me not the slightest intimation of it," Francis assured
his questioner, "in fact she invited me to meet her in the rose
garden last night.  When I arrived there, she was gone.  I have
heard nothing from her since."

"You spent the evening with her?"

"To my great content."

"What happened between you?"

"Nothing happened.  I took the opportunity, however, of letting
your daughter understand the nature of my feelings for her."

"Dear me!  May I ask what they are?"

"I will translate them into facts," Francis replied.  "I wish
your daughter to become my wife."

"You amaze me!" Sir Timothy exclaimed, with the old mocking smile
at his lips.  "How can you possibly contemplate association with
the daughter of a man whom you suspect and distrust as you do
me?"

"If I suspect and distrust you, it is your own fault," Francis
reminded him.  "You have declared yourself to be a criminal and a
friend of criminals.  I am inclined to believe that you have
spoken the truth.  I care for that fact just as little as I care
for the fact that you are a millionaire, or that Margaret has
been married to a murderer.  I intend her to become my wife."

"Did you encourage her to leave me?"

"I did not.  I had not the slightest idea that she had left The
Sanctuary until Lady Cynthia told me, halfway to London this
morning."

Sir Timothy was silent for several moments.

"Have you any idea in your own mind," he persisted, "as to where
she has gone and for what purpose?"

"Not the slightest in the world," Francis declared.  "I am just
as anxious to hear from her; and to know where she is, as you
seem to be."

Sir Timothy sighed.

"I am disappointed," he admitted.  "I had hoped to obtain some
information from you.  I must try in another direction."

"Since you are here, Sir Timothy," Francis said, as his visitor
prepared to depart, "may I ask whether you have any objection to
my marrying your daughter?"

Sir Timothy frowned.

"The question places me in a somewhat difficult position," he
replied coldly.  "In a certain sense I have a liking for you.
You are not quite the ingenuous nincompoop I took you for on the
night of our first meeting.  On the other hand, you have
prejudices against me.  My harmless confession of sympathy with
criminals and their ways seems to have stirred up a cloud of
suspicion in your mind.  You even employ a detective to show the
world what a fool he can look, sitting in a punt attempting to
fish, with one eye on the supposed abode of crime."

"I have nothing whatever to do with the details of Shopland's
investigations," Francis protested.  "He is in search of Reggie
Wilmore."

"Does he think I have secret dungeons in my new abode," Sir
Timothy demanded, "or oubliettes in which I keep and starve
brainless youths for some nameless purpose?  Be reasonable, Mr.
Ledsam.  What the devil benefit could accrue to me from abducting
or imprisoning or in any way laying my criminal hand upon this
young man?"

"None whatever that we have been able to discover as yet,"
Francis admitted.

"A leaning towards melodrama, admirable in its way, needs the
leaven of a well-balanced discretion and a sense of humour," Sir
Timothy observed.  "The latter quality is as a rule singularly
absent amongst the myrmidons of Scotland Yard.  I do not think
that Mr. Shopland will catch even fish in the neighbourhood of
The Walled House.  As regards your matrimonial proposal, let us
waive that until my daughter returns."

"As you will," Francis agreed.  "I will be frank to this extent,
at any rate.  If I can persuade your daughter to marry me, your
consent will not affect the matter."

"I can leave Margaret a matter of two million pounds," Sir
Timothy said pensively.

"I have enough money to support my wife myself," Francis
observed.

"Utopian but foolish," Sir Timothy declared.  "All the same, Mr.
Ledsam, let me tell you this.  You have a curious attraction for
me.  When I was asked why I had invited you to The Sanctuary last
night, I frankly could not answer the question.  I didn't know.
I don't know.  Your dislike of me doesn't seem to affect the
question.  I was glad to have you there last night.  It pleases
me to hear you talk, to hear your views of things.  I feel that I
shall have to be very careful, Mr. Ledsam, or--"

"Or what?" Francis demanded.

"Or I shall even welcome the idea of having you for a son-in-law,"
Sir Timothy concluded reluctantly.  "Make my excuses to Mr.
Shopland.  Au revoir!"

Shopland came in as the door closed behind the departing visitor.
He listened to all that Francis had to say, without comment.

"If The Walled House," he said at last, "is so carefully guarded
that Sir Timothy has been informed of my watching the place and
has been made aware of my mild questionings, it must be because
there is something to conceal.  I may or may not be on the track
of Mr. Reginald Wilmore, but," the detective concluded, "of one
thing I am becoming convinced--The Walled House will pay for
watching."




CHAPTER XXI


It was a day when chance was kind to Francis.  After leaving his
rooms at the Temple, he made a call at one of the great clubs in
Pall Mall, to enquire as to the whereabouts of a friend.  On his
way back towards the Sheridan, he came face to face with Margaret
Hilditch, issuing from the doors of one of the great steamship
companies.  For a moment he almost failed to recognise her.  She
reminded him more of the woman of the tea-shop.  Her costume,
neat and correct though it was, was studiously unobtrusive.  Her
motoring veil, too, was obviously worn to assist her in escaping
notice.

She, too, came to a standstill at seeing him.  Her first
ejaculations betrayed a surprise which bordered on consternation.
Then Francis, with a sudden inspiration, pointed to the long
envelope which she was carrying in her hand.

"You have been to book a passage somewhere!" he exclaimed.

"Well?"

The monosyllable was in her usual level tone.  Nevertheless, he
could see that she was shaken:

"You were going away without seeing me again?"' he asked
reproachfully.

"Yes!" she admitted.

"Why?"

She looked up and down a little helplessly.

"I owe you no explanation for my conduct," she said. "Please let
me pass."

"Could we talk for a few minutes, please?" he begged.  "Tell me
where you were going?"

"Oh, back to lunch, I suppose," she answered.

"Your father has been up, looking for you," he told her.

"I telephoned to The Sanctuary," she replied.  "He had just
left."

"I am very anxious," he continued, "not to distress you, but I
cannot let you go away like this.  Will you come to my rooms and
let us talk for a little time?"

She made no answer.  Somehow, he realised that speech just then
was difficult.  He called a taxi and handed her in.  They drove
to Clarges Street in silence.  He led the way up the stairs, gave
some quick orders to his servant whom he met coming down, ushered
her into his sitting-room and saw her ensconced in an easy-chair.

"Please take off that terrible veil," he begged.

"It is pinned on to my hat," she told him.

"Then off with both," he insisted.  "You can't eat luncheon like
that.  I'm not going to try and bully you.  If you've booked your
passage to Timbuctoo and you really want to go--why, you must.  I
only want the chance of letting you know that I am coming after
you."

She took off her hat and veil and threw them on to the sofa,
glancing sideways at a mirror let into the door of a cabinet.

"My hair is awful," she declared:

He laughed gaily, and turned around from the sideboard, where he
was busy mixing cocktails.

"Thank heavens for that touch of humanity!" he exclaimed.  "A
woman who can bother about her hair when she takes her hat off,
is never past praying for.  Please drink this."

She obeyed.  He took the empty glass away from her.  Then he came
over to the hearthrug by her side.

"Do you know that I kissed you last night?" he reminded her.

"I do," she answered.  "That is why I have just paid eighty-four
pounds for a passage to Buenos Ayres."

"I should have enjoyed the trip," he said.  "Still, I'm glad I
haven't to go."

"Do you really mean that you would have come after me?" she asked
curiously.

"Of course I should," he assured her.  "Believe me, there isn't
such an obstinate person in the world as the man of early
middle-age who suddenly discovers the woman he means to marry."

"But you can't marry me," she protested.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because I was Oliver Hilditch's wife, for one thing."

"Look here," he said, "if you had been Beelzebub's wife, it
wouldn't make the least difference to me.  You haven't given me
much of a chance to tell you so yet, Margaret, but I love you."

She sat a little forward in her chair.  Her eyes were fixed upon
his wonderingly.

"But how can you?" she exclaimed.  "You know, nothing of me except
my associations, and they have been horrible.  What is there to
love in me?  I am a frozen-up woman.  Everything is dead here,"
she went on, clasping her hand to her heart.  "I have no
sentiment, no passion, nothing but an animal desire to live my
life luxuriously and quickly."

He smiled confidently.  Then, with very little warning, he sank
on one knee, drew her face to his, kissed her lips and then her
eyes.

"Are you so sure of all these things, Margaret?" he whispered.
"Don't you think it is, perhaps, because there has been no one to
care for you as I do--as I shall--to the end of my days?  The
lily you left on your chair last night was like you--fair and
stately and beautiful, but a little bruised.  You will come back
as it has done, come back to the world.  My love will bring you.
My care.  Believe it, please!"

Then he saw the first signs of change in her face.  There was
the faintest shade of almost shell-like pink underneath the
creamy-white of her cheeks.  Her lips were trembling a little,
her eyes were misty.  With a sudden passionate little impulse,
her arms were around his neck, her lips sought his of their
own accord.

"Let me forget," she sobbed.  "Kiss me let me forget!"

Francis' servant was both heavy-footed and discreet.  When he
entered the room with a tray, his master was standing at the
sideboard.

"I've done the best I could, sir," he announced, a little
apologetically.  "Shall I lay the cloth?"

"Leave everything on the tray, Brooks," Francis directed.  "We
will help ourselves.  In an hour's time bring coffee."

The man glanced around the room.

"There are glasses on the sideboard, sir, and the corkscrew is
here.  I think you will have everything you want."

He departed, closing the door behind him.  Francis held out his
hands to Margaret.  She rose slowly to her feet, looked in the
glass helplessly and then back at him.  She was very beautiful
but a little dazed.

"Are we going to have luncheon?" she asked.

"Of course," he answered.  "Did you think I meant to starve you?"

He picked up the long envelope which she had dropped upon the
carpet, and threw it on to the sofa.  Then he drew up two chairs
to the table, and opened a small bottle of champagne.

"I hope you won't mind a picnic," he said.  "Really, Brooks
hasn't done so badly--pate de foie gras, hot toast and Devonshire
butter.  Let me spread some for you.  A cold chicken afterwards,
and some strawberries.  Please be hungry, Margaret."

She laughed at him.  It occurred to him suddenly, with a little
pang, that he had never heard her laugh before.  It was like
music.

"I'm too happy," she murmured.

"Believe me," he assured her, as he buttered a piece of toast,
"happiness and hunger might well be twins.  They go so well
together.  Misery can take away one's appetite.  Happiness, when
one gets over the gulpiness of it, is the best tonic in the
world.  And I never saw any one, dear, with whom happiness agreed
so well," he added, pausing in his task to bend over and kiss
her.  "Do you know you are the most beautiful thing on earth?  It
is a lucky thing we are going to live in England, and that these
are sober, matter-of-fact days, or I should find myself committed
to fighting duels all the time."

She had a momentary relapse.  A look of terror suddenly altered
her face.  She caught at his wrist.

"Don't!" she cried.  "Don't talk about such things!"

He was a little bewildered.  The moment passed.  She laughed
almost apologetically.

"Forgive me," she begged, "but I hate the thought of fighting of
any sort.  Some day I'll explain."

"Clumsy ass I was!" he declared, completing his task and setting
the result before her.  "Now how's that for a first course?
Drink a little of your wine."

He leaned his glass against hers.

"My love," he whispered, "my love now, dear, and always, and
you'll find it quite strong enough," he went on, "to keep you
from all the ugly things.  And now away with sentiment.  I had a
very excellent but solitary breakfast this morning, and it seems
a long time ago."

"It seems amazing to think that you spent last night at The
Sanctuary," she reflected.

"And that you and I were in a punt," he reminded her, "in the
pool of darkness where the trees met, and the lilies leaned over
to us."

"And you nearly upset the punt."

"Nothing of the sort!  As a matter of fact, I was very careful.
But," he proceeded, with a sudden wave of memory, "I don't think
my heart will ever beat normally again.  It seemed as though it
would tear its way out of my side when I leaned towards you, and
you knew, and you lay still."

She laughed.

"You surely didn't expect I was going to get up?  It was quite
encouragement enough to remain passive.  As a matter of fact,"
she went on, "I couldn't have moved.  I couldn't have uttered a
sound.  I suppose I must have been like one of those poor birds
you read about, when some devouring animal crouches for its last
spring."

"Compliments already!" he remarked.  "You won't forget that my
name is Francis, will you?  Try and practise it while I carve the
chicken."

"You carve very badly, Francis," she told him demurely.

"My dear," he said, "thank heavens we shall be able to afford a
butler!  By-the-bye, I told your father this morning that I was
going to marry you, and he didn't seem to think it possible
because he had two million pounds."

"Braggart!" she murmured.  "When did you see my father?"

"He came to my rooms in the Temple soon after I arrived this
morning.  He seemed to think I might know where you were.  I dare
say he won't like me for a son-in-law," Francis continued with a
smile.  "I can't help that.  He shouldn't have let me go out with
you in a punt."

There was a discreet knock at the door.  Brooks made his
apologetic and somewhat troubled entrance.

"Sir Timothy Brast is here to see you, sir," he announced.
"I ventured to say that you were not at home--"

"But I happened to know otherwise," a still voice remarked from
outside.  "May I come in, Mr. Ledsam?"

Sir Timothy stepped past the servant, who at a sign from Francis
disappeared, closing the door behind him.




CHAPTER XXII


After his first glance at Sir Timothy, Francis' only thought was
for Margaret.  To his intense relief, she showed no signs
whatever of terror, or of any relapse to her former state.  She
was entirely mistress of herself and the occasion.  Sir Timothy's
face was cold and terrible.

"I must apologise for this second intrusion, Mr. Ledsam," he said
cuttingly.  "I think you will admit that the circumstances
warrant it.  Am I to understand that you lied to me this
morning?"

"You are to understand nothing of the sort," Francis answered.
"I told you everything I knew at that time of your daughter's
movements."

"Indeed!" Sir Timothy murmured.  "This little banquet, then, was
unpremeditated?"

"Entirely," Francis replied.  "Here is the exact truth, so far as
I am concerned.  I met your daughter little more than an hour
ago, coming out of a steamship office, where she had booked a
passage to Buenos Ayres to get away from me.  I was fortunate
enough to induce her to change her mind.  She has consented
instead to remain in England as my wife.  We were, as you see,
celebrating the occasion."

Sir Timothy laid his hat upon the sideboard and slowly removed
his gloves.

"I trust," he said, "that this pint bottle does not represent
your cellar.  I will drink a glass of wine with you, and with
your permission make myself a pate sandwich.  I was just sitting
down to luncheon when I received the information which brought me
here."

Francis produced another bottle of wine from the sideboard and
filled his visitor's glass.

"You will drink, I hope, to our happiness," he said.

"I shall do nothing of the sort," Sir Timothy declared, helping
himself with care to the pate.  "I have no superstitions about
breaking bread with an enemy, or I should not have asked you to
visit me at The Sanctuary, Mr. Ledsam.  I object to your marriage
with my daughter, and I shall take what steps I can to prevent
it."

"Why?"

Sir Timothy did not at once reply.  He seemed to be enjoying his
sandwich; he also appreciated the flavour of his wine.

"Your question," he said, "strikes me as being a little
ingenuous.  You are at the present moment suspecting me of crimes
beyond number.  You encourage Scotland Yard detectives to make
asses of themselves in my stream.  Your myrmidons scramble on to
the top of my walls and try to bribe my servants to disclose the
mysteries of my household.  You have accepted to the fullest
extent my volunteered statement that I am a patron of crime.  You
are, in short--forgive me if I help myself to a little more of
this pate--engaged in a strenuous attempt to bring me to
justice."

"None of these things affects your daughter," Francis pointed out.

"Pardon me," Sir Timothy objected.  "You are a great and shining
light of the English law.  People speak of you as a future
Chancellor.  How can you contemplate an alliance with the widow
of one criminal and the daughter of another?"

"As to Margaret being Oliver Hilditch's widow," Francis replied,
"you were responsible for that, and no one else.  He was your
protege; you gave your consent to the marriage.  As to your being
her father, that again is not Margaret's fault.  I should marry
her if Oliver Hilditch had been three times the villain he was,
and if you were the Devil himself."

"I am getting quite to like you, Mr. Ledsam," Sir Timothy
declared, helping himself to another piece of toast and
commencing to butter it.  "Margaret, what have you to say about
all this?"

"I have nothing to say," she answered.  "Francis is speaking for
me.  I never dreamed that after what I have gone through I should
be able to care for any one again in this world.  I do care, and
I am very happy about it.  All last night I lay awake, making up
my mind to run away, and this morning I actually booked my
passage to Buenos Ayres.  Then we met--just outside the steamship
office--and I knew at once that I was making a mistake.  I shall
marry Francis exactly when he wants me to."

Sir Timothy passed his glass towards his proposed son-in-law.

"Might one suggest," he began--"thank you very much.  This is of
course very upsetting to me.  I seem to be set completely at
defiance.  It is a very excellent wine, this, and a wonderful
vintage."

Francis bent over Margaret.

"Please finish your lunch, dear," he begged.  "It is perhaps just
as well that your father came.  We shall know exactly where we
are."

"Just so," Sir Timothy agreed.

There was a queer constrained silence for several moments.  Then
Sir Timothy leaned back in his chair and with a word of apology
lit a cigarette.

"Let us," he said, "consider the situation.  Margaret is my
daughter.  You wish to marry her.  Margaret is of age and has
been married before.  She is at liberty, therefore, to make her
own choice.  You agree with me so far?"

"Entirely," Francis assented.

"It happens," Sir Timothy went on, "that I disapprove of her
choice.  She desires to marry a young man who belongs to a
profession which I detest, and whose efforts in life are directed
towards the extermination of a class of people for whom I have
every sympathy.  To me he represents the smug as against the
human, the artificially moral as against the freethinker.  He is
also my personal enemy.  I am therefore naturally desirous that
my daughter should not marry this young man."

"We will let it go at that," Francis commented, "but I should
like to point out to you that the antagonism between us is in no
way personal.  You have declared yourself for forces with which I
am at enmity, like any other decent-living citizen.  Your
declaration might at any time be amended."

Sir Timothy bowed.

"The situation is stated," he said.  "I will ask you this
question as a matter of form.  Do you recognise my right to
forbid your marriage with my daughter, Mr. Ledsam?"

"I most certainly do not," was the forcible reply.

"Have I any rights at all?" Sir Timothy asked.  "Margaret has
lived under my roof whenever it has suited her to do so.  Since
she has taken up her residence at Curzon Street, she has been her
own mistress, her banking account has known no limit whatsoever.
I may be a person of evil disposition, but I have shown no
unkindness to her."

"It is quite true," Margaret Admitted, turning a little pale.
"Since I have been alone, you have been kindness itself."

"Then let me repeat my question," Sir Timothy went on, "have I
the right to any consideration at all?"

"Yes," Francis replied.  "Short of keeping us apart, you have the
ordinary rights of a parent."

"Then I ask you to delay the announcement of your engagement, or
taking any further steps concerning it, for fourteen days," Sir
Timothy said.  "I place no restrictions on your movements during
that time.  Such hospitality as you, Mr. Ledsam, care to accept
at my hands, is at your disposal.  I am Bohemian enough, indeed,
to find nothing to complain of in such little celebrations as you
are at present indulging in--most excellent pate, that.  But I
request that no announcement of your engagement be made, or any
further arrangements made concerning it, for that fourteen days."

"I am quite willing, father," Margaret acquiesced.

"And I, sir," Francis echoed.

"In which case," Sir Timothy concluded, rising to his feet,
lighting a cigarette and taking up his hat and gloves, "I shall
go peaceably away.  You will admit, I trust," he added, with that
peculiar smile at the corner of his lips, "that I have not in any
way tried to come the heavy father?  I can even command a certain
amount of respect, Margaret, for a young man who is able to
inaugurate his engagement by an impromptu meal of such perfection.
I wish you both good morning.  Any invitation which Margaret
extends, Ledsam, please consider as confirmed by me."

He closed the door softly.  They heard his footsteps descending
the stairs.  Francis leaned once more over Margaret.  She seemed
still dazed, confused with new thoughts.  She responded, however,
readily to his touch, yielded to his caress with an almost
pathetic eagerness.

"Francis," she murmured, as his arms closed around her, "I want
to forget."




CHAPTER XXIII


There followed a brief period of time, the most wonderful of his
life, the happiest of hers.  They took advantage of Sir Timothy's
absolute license, and spent long days at The Sanctuary, ideal
lovers' days, with their punt moored at night amongst the lilies,
where her kisses seemed to come to him with an aroma and wonder
born of the spot.  Then there came a morning when he found a
cloud on her face.  She was looking at the great wall, and away
at the minaret beyond.  They had heard from the butler that Sir
Timothy had spent the night at the villa, and that preparations
were on hand for another of his wonderful parties.  Francis, who
was swift to read her thoughts, led her away into the rose garden
where once she had failed him.

"You have been looking over the wall, Margaret," he said
reproachfully.

She looked at him with a little twitch at the corners of her
lips.

"Francis dear," she confessed, "I am afraid you are right.  I
cannot even look towards The Walled House without wondering why
it was built--or catch a glimpse of that dome without stupid
guesses as to what may go on underneath."

"I think very likely," he said soothingly, "we have both
exaggerated the seriousness of your father's hobbies.  We know
that he has a wonderful gymnasium there, but the only definite
rumour I have ever heard about the place is that men fight there
who have a grudge against one another, and that they are not too
particular about the weight of the gloves.  That doesn't appeal
to us, you know, Margaret, but it isn't criminal."

"If that were all!" she murmured.

"I dare say it is," he declared.  "London, as you know, is a
hot-bed of gossip.  Everything that goes on is ridiculously
exaggerated, and I think that it rather appeals to your father's
curious sense of humour to pose as the law-breaker."

She pressed his arm a little.  The day was overcast, a slight
rain was beginning to fall.

"Francis," she whispered, "we had a perfect day here yesterday.
Now the sun has gone and I am shivery."

He understood in a moment.

"We'll lunch at Ranelagh," he suggested.  "It is almost on the
way up.  Then we can see what the weather is like.  If it is bad,
we can dine in town tonight and do a theatre."

"You are a dear," she told him fervently.  "I am going in to get
ready."

Francis went round to the garage for his car, and brought it to
the front.  While he was sitting there, Sir Timothy came through
the door in the wall.  He was smoking a cigar and he was holding
an umbrella to protect his white flannel suit.  He was as usual
wonderfully groomed and turned out, but he walked as though he
were tired, and his smile, as he greeted Francis, lacked a little
of its usual light-hearted mockery.

"Are you going up to town?" he enquired.

Francis pointed to the grey skies.

"Just for the day," he answered.  "Lady Cynthia went by the early
train.  We missed you last night."

"I came down late," Sir Timothy explained, "and I found it more
convenient to stay at The Walled House.  I hope you find that
Grover looks after you while I am away?  He has carte blanche so
far as regards my cellar."

"We have been wonderfully served," Francis assured him.

In the distance they could hear the sound of hammering on the
other side of the wall.  Francis moved his head in that
direction.

"I hear that they are preparing for another of your wonderful
entertainments over there," he remarked.

"On Thursday," Sir Timothy assented.  "I shall have something to
say to you about it later on."

"Am I to take it that I am likely to receive an invitation?"
Francis asked.

"I should think it possible," was the calm reply.

"What about Margaret?"

"My entertainment would not appeal to her," Sir Timothy declared.
"The women whom I have been in the habit of asking are not women
of Margaret's type."

"And Lady Cynthia?"

Sir Timothy frowned slightly.

"I find myself in some difficulty as regards Lady Cynthia," he
admitted.  "I am the guardian of nobody's morals, nor am I the
censor of their tastes, but my entertainments are for men.  The
women whom I have hitherto asked have been women in whom I have
taken no personal interest.  They are necessary to form a
picturesque background for my rooms, in the same way that I look
to the gardeners to supply the floral decorations.  Lady
Cynthia's instincts, however, are somewhat adventurous.  She
would scarcely be content to remain a decoration."

"The issuing of your invitations," Francis remarked, "is of
course a matter which concerns nobody else except yourself.  If
you do decide to favour me with one, I shall be delighted to
come, provided Margaret has no objection."

"Such a reservation promises well for the future," Sir Timothy
observed, with gentle sarcasm.  "Here comes Margaret, looking
very well, I am glad to see."

Margaret came forward to greet her father before stepping into
the car.  They exchanged only a few sentences, but Francis, whose
interest in their relations was almost abnormally keen, fancied
that he could detect signs of some change in their demeanour
towards one another.  The cold propriety of deportment which had
characterised her former attitude towards her father, seemed to
have given place to something more uncertain, to something less
formal, something which left room even for a measure of
cordiality.  She looked at him differently.  It was as though
some evil thought which lived in her heart concerning him had
perished.

"You are busy over there, father?" she asked.

"In a way," he replied.  "We are preparing for some festivities
on Thursday."

Her face fell.

"Another party?"

"One more," he replied.  "Perhaps the last--for the present, at
any rate."

She waited as though expecting him to explain.  He changed the
subject, however.

"I think you are wise to run up to town this morning," he said,
glancing up at the grey skies.  "By-the-bye, if you dine at
Curzon Street to-night, do ask Hedges to serve you some of the
'99 Cliquot.  A marvellous wine, as you doubtless know, Ledsam,
but it should be drunk.  Au revoir!"


Francis, after a pleasant lunch at Ranelagh, and having arranged
with Margaret to dine with her in Curzon Street, spent an hour or
two that afternoon at his chambers.  As he was leaving, just
before five, he came face to face with Shopland descending from a
taxi.

"Are you busy, Mr. Ledsam?" the latter enquired.  "Can you spare
me half-an-hour?"

"An hour, if you like," Francis assented.

Shopland gave the driver an address and the two men seated
themselves in the taxicab.

"Any news?" Francis asked curiously.

"Not yet," was the cautious reply.  "It will not be long,
however."

"Before you discover Reggie Wilmore?"

The detective smiled in a superior way.

"I am no longer particularly interested in Mr. Reginald Wilmore,"
he declared.  "I have come to the conclusion that his disappearance
is not a serious affair."

"It's serious enough for his relatives," Francis objected.

"Not if they understood the situation," the detective rejoined.
"Assure them from me that nothing of consequence has happened to
that young man.  I have made enquiries at the gymnasium in
Holborn, and in other directions.  I am convinced that his
absence from home is voluntary, and that there is no cause for
alarm as to his welfare."

"Then the sooner you make your way down to Kensington and tell
his mother so, the better," Francis said, a little severely.
"Don't forget that I put you on to this."

"Quite right, sir," the detective acquiesced, "and I am grateful
to you.  The fact of it is that in making my preliminary
investigations with regard to the disappearance of Mr. Wilmore, I
have stumbled upon a bigger thing.  Before many weeks are past, I
hope to be able to unearth one of the greatest scandals of modern
times."

"The devil!" Francis muttered.

He looked thoughtfully, almost anxiously at his companion.
Shopland's face reflected to the full his usual confidence.
He had the air of a man buoyant with hope and with stifled
self-satisfaction.

"I am engaged," he continued, "upon a study of the methods and
habits of one whom I believe to be a great criminal.  I think
that when I place my prisoner in the bar, Wainwright and these
other great artists in crime will fade from the memory."

"Is Sir Timothy Brast your man?" Francis asked quietly.

His companion frowned portentously.

"No names," he begged.

"Considering that it was I who first put you on to him," Francis
expostulated, "I don't think you need be so sparing of your
confidence."

"Mr. Ledsam," the detective assured him, "I shall tell you
everything that is possible.  At the same time, I will be frank
with you.  You are right when you say that it was you who first
directed my attention towards Sir Timothy Brast.  Since that
time, however, your own relations with him, to an onlooker, have
become a little puzzling."

"I see," Francis murmured.  "You've been spying on me?"

Shopland shook his head in deprecating fashion.

"A study of Sir Timothy during the last month," he said, "has
brought you many a time into the focus."

"Where are we going to now?" Francis asked, a little abruptly.

"Just a side show, sir.  It's one of those outside things I have
come across which give light and shade to the whole affair.  We
get out here, if you please."

The two men stepped on to the pavement.  They were in a street a
little north of Wardour Street, where the shops for the most part
were of a miscellaneous variety.  Exactly in front of them, the
space behind a large plate-glass window had been transformed into
a sort of show-place for dogs.  There were twenty or thirty of
them there, of all breeds and varieties.

"What the mischief is this?" Francis demanded.

"Come in and make enquiries," Shopland replied.  "I can promise
that you will find it interesting.  It's a sort of dog's home."

Francis followed his companion into the place.  A pleasant-looking,
middle-aged woman came forward and greeted the latter.

"Do you mind telling my friend what you told me the other day?"
he asked.

"Certainly, sir," she replied.  "We collect stray animals here,
sir," she continued, turning to Francis.  "Every one who has a
dog or a cat he can't afford to keep, or which he wants to get
rid of, may bring it to us.  We have agents all the time in the
streets, and if any official of the Society for the Prevention
of Cruelty to Animals brings us news of a dog or a cat being
ill-treated, we either purchase it or acquire it in some way or
other and keep it here."

"But your dogs in the window," Francis observed, "all seem to be
in wonderful condition."

The woman smiled.

"We have a large dog and cat hospital behind," she explained,
"and a veterinary surgeon who is always in attendance.  The
animals are treated there as they are brought in, and fed up if
they are out of condition.  When they are ready to sell, we show
them."

"But is this a commercial undertaking," Francis enquired
carefully, "or is it a branch of the S.P.C.A.?"

"It's quite a private affair, sir," the woman told him.  "We
charge only five shillings for the dogs and half-a-crown for the
cats, but every one who has one must sign our book, promising to
give it a good home, and has to be either known to us or to
produce references.  We do not attempt, of course, to snake a
profit."

"Who on earth is responsible for the upkeep?"

"We are not allowed to mention any names here, sir, but as a
matter of fact I think that your friend knows.  He met the
gentleman in here one day.  Would you care to have a look at the
hospital, sir?"

Francis spent a quarter of an hour wandering around.  When they
left the place, Shopland turned to him with a smile.

"Now, sir," he said, "shall I tell you at whose expense that
place is run?"

"I think I can guess," Francis replied.  "I should say that Sir
Timothy Brast was responsible for it."

The detective nodded.  He was a little disappointed.

"You know about his collection of broken-down horses in the park
at The Walled House, too, then, I suppose?  They come whinnying
after him like a flock of sheep whenever he shows himself."

"I know about them, too," Francis admitted.  "I was present
once when he got out of his car, knocked a carter down who was
ill-treating a horse, bought it on the spot and sent it home."

Shopland smiled, inscrutably yet with the air of one vastly
pleased.

"These little side-shows," he said, "are what help to make this,
which I believe will be the greatest case of my life, so
supremely interesting.  Any one of my fraternity," he continued,
with an air of satisfaction, "can take hold of a thread and
follow it step by step, and wind up with the handcuffs, as I did
myself with the young man Fairfax.  But a case like this, which
includes a study of temperament, requires something more."

They were seated once more in the taxicab, on their way westward.
Francis for the first time was conscious of an utterly new
sensation with regard to his companion.  He watched him through
half-closed eyes--an insignificant-looking little man whose
clothes, though neat, were ill-chosen, and whose tie was an
offense.  There was nothing in the face to denote unusual
intelligence, but the eyes were small and cunning and the mouth
dogged.  Francis looked away out of the window.  A sudden flash
of realisation had come to him, a wave of unreasoning but
positive dislike.

"When do you hope to bring your case to an end?" he asked.

The man smiled once more, and the very smile irritated his
companion.

"Within the course of the next few days, sir," he replied.

"And the charge?"

The detective turned around.

"Mr. Ledsam," he said, "we have been old friends, if you will
allow me to use the word, ever since I was promoted to my present
position in the Force.  You have trusted me with a good many
cases, and I acknowledge myself your debtor, but in the matter of
Sir Timothy Brast, you will forgive my saying with all respect,
sir, that our ways seem to lie a little apart."

"Will you tell me why you have arrived at that conclusion?"
Francis asked.  "It was I who first incited you to set a watch
upon Sir Timothy.  It was to you I first mentioned certain
suspicions I myself had with regard to him.  I treated you with
every confidence.  Why do you now withhold yours from me?"

"It is quite true, Mr. Ledsam," Shopland admitted, "that it was
you who first pointed out Sir Timothy as an interesting study for
my profession, but that was a matter of months ago.  If you will
forgive my saying so, your relations with Sir Timothy have
altered since then.  You have been his guest at The Sanctuary,
and there is a rumour, sir--you will pardon me if I seem to be
taking a liberty--that you are engaged to be married to his
daughter, Oliver Hilditch's widow."

"You seem to be tolerably well informed as to my affairs,
Shopland," Francis remarked.

"Only so far as regards your associations with Sir Timothy," was
the deprecating reply.  "If you will excuse me, sir, this is
where I should like to descend."

"You have no message for Mr. Wilmore, then?" Francis asked.

"Nothing definite, sir, but you can assure him of this.  His
brother is not likely to come to any particular harm.  I have no
absolute information to offer, but it is my impression that Mr.
Reginald Wilmore will be home before a week is past.  Good
afternoon, sir."

Shopland stepped out of the taxicab and, raising his hat, walked
quickly away.  Francis directed the man to drive to Clarges
Street.  As they drove off, he was conscious of a folded piece of
paper in the corner where his late companion had been seated.  He
picked it up, opened it, realised that it was a letter from a
firm of lawyers, addressed to Shopland, and deliberately read it
through.  It was dated from a small town not far from Hatch End:


  DEAR SIR:

  Mr. John Phillips of this firm, who is coroner for the
district, has desired me to answer the enquiry contained    in
your official letter of the 13th.  The number of    inquests held
upon bodies recovered from the Thames in the    neighbourhood to
which you allude, during the present year    has been seven.
Four of these have been identified.     Concerning the remaining
three nothing has ever been    heard.  Such particulars as are on
our file will be    available to any accredited representative of
the police    at any time.

                    Faithfully yours,
                                    PHILLIPS & SON.


The taxicab came to a sudden stop.  Francis glanced up.  Very
breathless, Shopland put his head in at the window.

"I dropped a letter," he gasped.

Francis folded it up and handed it to him.

"What about these three unidentified people, Shopland?" he asked,
looking at him intently.

The man frowned angrily.  There was a note of defiance in his
tone as he stowed the letter away in his pocketbook.

"There were two men and one woman," he replied, "all three of the
upper classes.  The bodies were recovered from Wilson's lock,
some three hundred yards from The Walled House."

"Do they form part of your case?" Francis persisted.

Shopland stepped back.

"Mr. Ledsam," he said, "I told you, some little time ago, that so
far as this particular case was concerned I had no confidences to
share with you.  I am sorry that you saw that letter.  Since you
did, however, I hope you will not take it as a liberty from one
in my position if I advise you most strenuously to do nothing
which might impede the course of the law.  Good day, sir!"




CHAPTER XXIV


Francis, in that pleasant half-hour before dinner which he spent
in Margaret's sitting-room, told her of the dogs' home near
Wardour Street.  She listened sympathetically to his description
of the place.

"I had never heard of it," she acknowledged, "but I am not in
anyway surprised.  My father spends at least an hour of every
day, when he is down at Hatch End, amongst the horses, and every
time a fresh crock is brought down, he is as interested as though
it were a new toy."

"It is a remarkable trait in a very remarkable character,"
Francis commented.

"I could tell you many things that would surprise you," Margaret
continued.  "One night, for instance, when we were staying at The
Sanctuary, he and I were going out to dine with some neighbours
and he heard a cat mewing in the hedge somewhere.  He stopped the
car, got out himself, found that the cat had been caught in a
trap, released it, and sent me on to the dinner alone whilst he
took the animal back to the veterinary surgeon at The Walled
House.  He was simply white with fury whilst he was tying up the
poor thing's leg.  I couldn't help asking him what he would have
done if he could have found the farmer who set the trap.  He
looked up at me and I was almost frightened.  'I should have
killed him,' he said,--and I believe he meant it.  And, Francis,
the very next day we were motoring to London and saw a terrible
accident.  A motor bicyclist came down a side road at full speed
and ran into a motor-lorry.  My father got out of the car, helped
them lift the body from under the wheels of the lorry, and came
back absolutely unmoved.  'Serve the silly young fool right!' was
his only remark.  He was so horribly callous that I could
scarcely bear to sit by his side.  Do you understand that?"

"It isn't easy," he admitted.

There was a knock at the door.  Margaret glanced at the clock.

"Surely dinner can't be served already!" she exclaimed.  "Come
in."

Very much to their surprise, it was Sir Timothy himself who
entered.  He was in evening dress and wearing several orders, one
of which Francis noted with surprise.

"My apologies," he said.  "Hedges told me that there were
cocktails here, and as I am on my way to a rather weary dinner, I
thought I might inflict myself upon you for a moment."

Margaret rose at once to her feet.

"I am a shocking hostess," she declared.  "Hedges brought the
things in twenty minutes ago."

She took up the silver receptacle, shook it vigorously and filled
three glasses.  Sir Timothy accepted his and bowed to them both.

"My best wishes," he said.  "Really, when one comes to think of
it, however much it may be against my inclinations I scarcely see
how I shall be able to withhold my consent.  I believe that you
both have at heart the flair for domesticity.  This little
picture, and the thought of your tete-a-tete dinner, almost
touches me."

"Don't make fun of us, father," Margaret begged.  "Tell us where
you are going in all that splendour?"

Sir Timothy shrugged his shoulders.

"A month or so ago," he explained, "I was chosen to induct a
scion of Royalty into the understanding of fighting as it is
indulged in at the National Sporting Club.  This, I suppose, is
my reward--an invitation to something in the nature of a State
dinner, which, to tell you the truth, I had forgotten until my
secretary pointed it out to me this afternoon.  I have grave
fears of being bored or of misbehaving myself.  I have, as Ledsam
here knows, a distressing habit of truthfulness, especially to
new acquaintances.  However, we must hope for the best.  By-the-bye,
Ledsam, in case you should have forgotten, I have spoken to Hedges
about the '99 Cliquot."

"Shall we see you here later?" Margaret asked, after Francis had
murmured his thanks.

"I shall probably return direct to Hatch End," Sir Timothy
replied.  "There are various little matters down there which are
interesting me just now preparations for my party.  Au revoir!  A
delicious cocktail, but I am inclined to resent the Angostura."

He sauntered out, after a glance at the clock.  They heard his
footsteps as he descended the stairs.

"Tell me, what manner of a man is your father?" Francis asked
impulsively.

"I am his daughter and I do not know," Margaret answered.
"Before he came, I was going to speak to you of a strange
misunderstanding which has existed between us and which has just
been removed.  Now I have a fancy to leave it until later.  You
will not mind?"

"When you choose," Francis assented.  "Nothing will make any
difference.  We are past the days when fathers or even mothers
count seriously in the things that exist between two people like
you and me, who have felt life.  Whatever your father may be,
whatever he may turn out to be, you are the woman I love--you are
the woman who is going to be my wife."

She leaned towards him for a moment.

"You have an amazing gift," she whispered, "of saying just the
thing one loves to hear in the way that convinces."

Dinner was served to them in the smaller of the two dining-rooms,
an exquisite meal, made more wonderful still by the wine, which
Hedges himself dispensed with jealous care.  The presence of
servants, with its restraining influence upon conversation, was
not altogether unwelcome to Francis.  He and Margaret had had so
little opportunity for general conversation that to discuss other
than personal subjects in this pleasant, leisurely way had its
charm.  They spoke of music, of which she knew far more than he;
of foreign travel, where they met on common ground, for each had
only the tourist's knowledge of Europe, and each was anxious for
a more individual acquaintance with it.  She had tastes in books
which delighted him, a knowledge of games which promised a common
resource.  It was only whilst they were talking that he realised
with a shock how young she was, how few the years that lay
between her serene school-days and the tempestuous years of her
married life.  Her school-days in Naples were most redolent of
delightful memories.  She broke off once or twice into the
language, and he listened with delight to her soft accent.
Finally the time came when dessert was set upon the table.

"I have ordered coffee up in the little sitting-room again," she
said, a little shyly.  "Do you mind, or would you rather have it
here?"

"I much prefer it there," he assured her.

They sat before an open window, looking out upon some elm trees
in the boughs of which town sparrows twittered, and with a
background of roofs and chimneys.  Margaret's coffee was
untasted, even her cigarette lay unlit by her side.  There was a
touch of the old horror upon her face.  The fingers which he drew
into his were as cold as ice.

"You must have wondered sometimes," she began, "why I ever
married Oliver Hilditch."

"You were very young," he reminded her, with a little shiver,
"and very inexperienced.  I suppose he appealed to you in some
way or another."

"It wasn't that," she replied.  "He came to visit, me at
Eastbourne, and he certainly knew all the tricks of making
himself attractive and agreeable.  But he never won my heart--he
never even seriously took my fancy.  I married him because I
believed that by doing so I was obeying my father's wishes."

"Where was your father at the time, then?" Francis asked.

"In South America.  Oliver Hilditch was nothing more than a
discharged employé of his, discharged for dishonesty.  He had to
leave South America; within a week to escape prosecution, and on
the way to Europe he concocted the plot which very nearly ruined
my life.  He forged a letter from my father, begging me, if I
found it in any way possible,  to listen to Oliver Hilditch's
proposals, and hinting guardedly at a very serious financial
crisis which it was in his power to avert.  It never occurred to
me or to my chaperon to question his bona fides.  He had lived
under the same roof as my father, and knew all the intimate
details of his life.  He was very clever and I suppose I was a
fool.  I remember thinking I was doing quite a heroic action when
I went to the registrar with him.  What it led to you know."

There was a moment's throbbing silence.  Francis, notwithstanding
his deep pity, was conscious of an overwhelming sensation of
relief.  She had never cared for Oliver Hilditch!  She had never
pretended to!  He put the thought into words.

"You never cared for him, then?"

"I tried to," she replied simply, "but I found it impossible.
Within a week of our marriage I hated him."

Francis leaned back, his eyes half closed.  In his ears was the
sonorous roar of Piccadilly, the hooting of motor-cars, close at
hand the rustling of a faint wind in the elm trees.  It was a
wonderful moment.  The nightmare with which he had grappled so
fiercely, which he had overthrown, but whose ghost still
sometimes walked by his side, had lost its chief and most
poignant terror.  She had been tricked into the marriage.  She
had never cared or pretended to care.  The primal horror of that
tragedy which he had figured so often to himself, seemed to have
departed with the thought.  Its shadow must always remain, but in
time his conscience would acquiesce in the pronouncement of his
reason.  It was the hand of justice, not any human hand, which
had slain Oliver Hilditch.

"What did your father say when he discovered the truth?" he
asked.

"He did not know it until he came to England--on the day that
Oliver Hilditch was acquitted.  My husband always pretended that
he had a special mail bag going out to South America, so he took
away all the letters I wrote to my father, and he took care that
I received none except one or two which I know now were
forgeries.  He had friends in South America himself who helped
him--one a typist in my father's office, of whom I discovered
afterwards--but that really doesn't matter.  He was a wonderful
master of deceit."

Francis suddenly took her hands.  He had an overwhelming desire
to escape from the miasma of those ugly days, with their train of
attendant thoughts and speculations.

"Let us talk about ourselves," he whispered.

After that, the evening glided away incoherently, with no sustained
conversation, but with an increasing sense of well-being, of soothed
nerves and happiness, flaming seconds of passion, sign-posts of the
wonderful world which lay before them.  They sat in the cool silence
until the lights of the returning taxicabs and motor-cars became
more frequent, until the stars crept into the sky and the yellow
arc of the moon stole up over the tops of the houses.  Presently
they saw Sir Timothy's Rolls-Royce glide up to the front door below
and Sir Timothy himself enter the house, followed by another man
whose appearance was somehow familiar.

"Your father has changed his mind," Francis observed.

"Perhaps he has called for something," she suggested, "or he may
want to change his clothes before he goes down to the country."

Presently, however, there was a knock at the door.  Hedges made
his diffident appearance.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he began, addressing Francis.  "Sir
Timothy has been asking if you are still here.  He would be very
glad if you could spare him a moment in the library."

Francis rose at once to his feet.

"I was just leaving," he said.  "I will look in at the library
and see Sir Timothy on my way out."




CHAPTER XXV


Sir Timothy was standing upon the hearthrug of the very wonderful
apartment which he called his library.  By his side, on a black
marble pedestal, stood a small statue by Rodin.  Behind him, lit
by a shielded electric light, was a Vandyck, "A Portrait of a
Gentleman Unknown," and Francis, as he hesitated for a moment
upon the threshold, was struck by a sudden quaint likeness
between the face of the man in the picture, with his sunken
cheeks, his supercilious smile, his narrowed but powerful eyes,
to the face of Sir Timothy himself.  There was something of the
same spirit there--the lawless buccaneer, perhaps the criminal.

"You asked for me, Sir Timothy," Francis said.

Sir Timothy smiled.

"I was fortunate to find that you had not left," he answered.  "I
want you to be present at this forthcoming interview.  You are to
a certain extent in the game.  I thought it might amuse you."

Francis for the first time was aware that his host was not alone.
The room, with its odd splashes of light, was full of shadows,
and he saw now that in an easy-chair a little distance away from
Sir Timothy, a girl was seated.  Behind her, still standing, with
his hat in his hand, was a man.  Francis recognised them both
with surprise.

"Miss Hyslop!" he exclaimed.

She nodded a little defiantly.  Sir Timothy smiled.  "Ah!" he
said.  "You know the young lady, without a doubt.  Mr. Shopland,
your coadjutor in various works of philanthropy, you recognise,
of course?  I do not mind confessing to you, Ledsam, that I am
very much afraid of Mr. Shopland.  I am not at all sure that he
has not a warrant for my arrest in his pocket."

The detective came a little further into the light.  He was
attired in an ill-fitting dinner suit, a soft-fronted shirt of
unpleasing design, a collar of the wrong shape, and a badly
arranged tie.  He seemed, nevertheless, very pleased with
himself.

"I came on here, Mr. Ledsam, at Sir Timothy's desire," he said.
"I should like you to understand," he added, with a covert glance
of warning, "that I have been devoting every effort, during the
last few days, to the discovery of your friend's brother, Mr.
Reginald Wilmore."

"I am very glad to hear it," Francis replied shortly.  "The boy's
brother is one of my greatest friends."

"I have come to the conclusion," the detective pronounced, "that
the young man has been abducted, and is being detained at The
Walled House against his will for some illegal purpose."

"In other respects," Sir Timothy said, stretching out his hand
towards a cedar-wood box of cigarettes and selecting one, "this
man seems quite sane.  I have watched him very closely on the way
here, but I could see no signs of mental aberration.  I do not
think, at any rate, that he is dangerous."

"Sir Timothy," Shopland explained, with some anger in his tone,
"declines to take me seriously.  I can of course apply for a
search warrant, as I shall do, but it occurred to me to be one of
those cases which could be better dealt with, up to a certain
point, without recourse to the extremities of the law."

Sir Timothy, who had lit his cigarette, presented a wholly
undisturbed front.

"What I cannot quite understand," he said, "is the exact meaning
of that word 'abduction.'  Why should I be suspected of forcibly
removing a harmless and worthy young man from his regular
avocation, and, as you term it, abducting him, which I presume
means keeping him bound and gagged and imprisoned?  I do not eat
young men.  I do not even care for the society of young men.  I
am not naturally a gregarious person, but I think I would go so
far," he added, with a bow towards Miss Hyslop, "as to say that I
prefer the society of young women.  Satisfy my curiosity,
therefore, I beg of you.  For what reason do you suppose that I
have been concerned in the disappearance of this Mr. Reginald
Wilmore?"

Francis opened his lips, but Shopland, with a warning glance,
intervened.

"I work sometimes as a private person, sir," he said, "but it is
not to be forgotten that I am an officer of the law.  It is not
for us to state motives or even to afford explanations for our
behaviour.  I have watched your house at Hatch End, Sir Timothy,
and I have come to the conclusion that unless you are willing to
discuss this matter with me in a different spirit, I am justified
in asking the magistrates for a search warrant."

Sir Timothy sighed.

"Mr. Ledsam," he said, "I think, after all, that yours is the
most interesting end of this espionage business.  It is you who
search for motives, is it not, and pass them on to our more
automatic friend, who does the rest.  May I ask, have you
supplied the motive in the present case?"

"I have failed to discover any motive at all for Reginald
Wilmore's disappearance," Francis admitted, "nor have I at any
time been able to connect you with it.  Mr. Shopland's efforts,
however, although he has not seen well to take me into his entire
confidence, have my warmest approval and sympathy.  Although I
have accepted your very generous hospitality, Sir Timothy, I
think there has been no misunderstanding between us on this
matter."

"Most correct," Sir Timothy murmured.  "The trouble seems to be,
so far as I am concerned, that no one will tell me exactly of
what I am suspected?  I am to give Mr. Shopland the run of my
house, or he will make his appearance in the magistrate's court
and the evening papers will have placards with marvellous
headlines at my expense.  How will it run, Mr. Shopland--

  "'MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN.
    MILLIONAIRE'S HOUSE TO BE SEARCHED.'"

"We do not necessarily acquaint the press with our procedure,"
Shopland rejoined.

"Nevertheless," Sir Timothy continued, "I have known awkward
consequences arise from a search warrant too rashly applied for
or granted.  However, we are scarcely being polite.  So far, Miss
Hyslop has had very little to say."

The young lady was not altogether at her ease.

"I have had very little to say," she repeated, "because I did not
expect an audience."

Sir Timothy drew a letter from his pocket, opened it and adjusted
his eyeglass.

"Here we are," he said.  "After leaving my dinner-party tonight,
I called at the club and found this note.  Quite an inviting
little affair, you see young lady's writing, faint but very
delicate perfume, excellent stationery, Milan Court--the home of
adventures!"

  "DEAR SIR TIMOTHY BRAST:

  "Although I am not known to you personally, there is a
certain matter concerning which information has come into my
possession, which I should like to discuss with you.  Will
you call and see me as soon as possible?"
                              Sincerely yours,
                                 "DAISY HYSLOP."

"On receipt of this note," Sir Timothy continued, folding it up,
"I telephoned to the young lady and as I was fortunate enough to
find her at home I asked her to come here.  I then took the
liberty of introducing myself to Mr. Shopland, whose interest in
my evening has been unvarying, and whose uninvited company I have
been compelled to bear with, and suggested that, as I was on my
way back to Curzon Street, he had better come in and have a drink
and tell me what it was all about.  I arranged that he should
find Miss Hyslop here, and for a person of observation, which I
flatter myself to be, it was easy to discover the interesting
fact that Mr. Shopland and Miss Daisy Hyslop were not strangers.

"Now tell me, young lady," Sir Timothy went on.  "You see, I have
placed myself entirely in your hands.  Never mind the presence of
these two gentlemen. Tell me exactly what you wanted to say to me?"

"The matter is of no great importance," Miss Hyslop declared, "in
any case I should not discuss it before these two gentlemen."

"Don't go for a moment, please," Sir Timothy begged, as she
showed signs of departure.  "Listen.  I want to make a suggestion
to you.  There is an impression abroad that I was interested in
the two young men, Victor Bidlake and Fairfax, and that I knew
something of their quarrel.  You were an intimate friend of young
Bidlake's and presumably in his confidence.  It occurs to me,
therefore, that Mr. Shopland might very well have visited you in
search of information, linking me up with that unfortunate
affair.  Hence your little note to me."

Miss Hyslop rose to her feet.  She had the appearance of being
very angry indeed.

"Do you mean to insinuate--" she began.

"Madam, I insinuate nothing," Sir Timothy interrupted sternly.
"I only desire to suggest this.  You are a young lady whose
manner of living, I gather, is to a certain extent precarious.
It must have seemed to you a likelier source of profit to
withhold any information you might have to give at the
solicitation of a rich man, than to give it free gratis and for
nothing to a detective.  Now am I right?"

Miss Hyslop turned towards the door.  She had the air of a person
who had been entirely misunderstood.

"I wrote you out of kindness, Sir Timothy," she said in an
aggrieved manner.  "I shall have nothing more to say on the
matter--to you, at any rate."

Sir Timothy sighed.

"You see," he said, turning to the others, "I have lost my chance
of conciliating a witness.  My cheque-book remains locked up and
she has gone over to your side."

She turned around suddenly.

"You know that you made Bobby Fairfax kill Victor!" she almost
shouted.

Sir Timothy smiled in triumph.

"My dear young lady," he begged, "let us now be friends again.  I
desired to know your trump card.  For that reason I fear that I
have been a little brutal.  Now please don't hurry away.  You
have shot your bolt.  Already Mr. Shopland is turning the thing
over in his mind.  Was I lurking outside that night, Mr.
Shopland, to guide that young man's flabby arm?  He scarcely
seemed man enough for a murderer, did he, when he sat quaking on
that stool in Soto's Bar while Mr. Ledsam tortured him?  I beg
you again not to hurry, Miss Hyslop.  At any rate wait while my
servants fetch you a taxi.  It was clouding over when I came in.
We may even have a thunderstorm."

"I want to get out of this house," Daisy Hyslop declared.
"I think you are all horrible.  Mr. Ledsam did behave like
a gentleman when he came to see me, and Mr. Shopland asked
questions civilly.  But you--" she added, turning round to Sir
Timothy.

"Hush, my dear," he interrupted, holding out his hand.  "Don't
abuse me.  I am not angry with you--not in the least--and I am
going to prove it.  I shall oppose any search warrant which you
might apply for, Mr. Shopland, and I think I can oppose it with
success.  But I invite you two, Miss Hyslop and Mr. Ledsam, to my
party on Thursday night.  Once under my roof you shall have carte
blanche.  You can wander where you please, knock the walls for
secret hiding-places, stamp upon the floor for oubliettes.
Upstairs or down, the cellars and the lofts, the grounds and the
park, the whole of my domain is for you from midnight on Thursday
until four o'clock.  What do you say, Mr. Shopland?  Does my
offer satisfy you?"

The detective hesitated.

"I should prefer an invitation for myself," he declared bluntly.

Sir Timothy shook his head.

"Alas, my dear Mr. Shopland," he regretted, "that is impossible!
If I had only myself to consider I would not hesitate.
Personally I like you.  You amuse me more than any one I have met
for a long time.  But unfortunately I have my guests to consider!
You must be satisfied with Mr. Ledsam's report."

Shopland stroked his stubbly moustache.  It was obvious that he
was not in the least disconcerted.

"There are three days between now and then," he reflected.

"During those three days, of course," Sir Timothy said drily, "I
shall do my best to obliterate all traces of my various crimes.
Still, you are a clever detective, and you can give Mr. Ledsam a
few hints.  Take my advice.  You won't get that search warrant,
and if you apply for it none of you will be at my party."

"I accept," Shopland decided.

Sir Timothy crossed the room, unlocked the drawer of a
magnificent writing-table, and from a little packet drew out two
cards of invitation.  They were of small size but thick, and the
colour was a brilliant scarlet.  On one he wrote the name of
Francis, the other he filled in for Miss Hyslop.

"Miss Daisy Hyslop," he said, "shall we drink a glass of wine
together on Thursday evening, and will you decide that although,
perhaps, I am not a very satisfactory correspondent, I can at
least be an amiable host?"

The girl's eyes glistened.  She knew very well that the
possession of that card meant that for the next few days she
would be the envy of every one of her acquaintances.

"Thank you, Sir Timothy," she replied eagerly.  "You have quite
misunderstood me but I should like to come to your party."

Sir Timothy handed over the cards.  He rang for a servant and
bowed the others out.  Francis he detained for a moment.

"Our little duel, my friend, marches," he said.  "After Thursday
night we will speak again of this matter concerning Margaret.
You will know then what you have to face."

Margaret herself opened the door and looked in.

"What have those people been doing here?" she asked.  "What is
happening?"

Her father unlocked his drawer once more and drew out another of
the red cards.

"Margaret," he said, "Ledsam here has accepted my invitation for
Thursday night.  You have never, up till now, honoured me, nor
have I ever asked you.  I suggest that for the first part of the
entertainment, you give me the pleasure of your company."

"For the first part?"

"For the first part only," he repeated, as he wrote her name upon
the card.

"What about Francis?" she asked.  "Is he to stay all the time?"

Sir Timothy smiled.  He locked up his drawer and slipped the
key into his pocket.

"Ledsam and I," he said, "have promised one another a more
complete mutual understanding on Thursday night.  I may not be
able to part with him quite so soon."




CHAPTER XXVI


Bored and listless, like a tired and drooping lily in the arms of
her somewhat athletic partner, Lady Cynthia brought her dance to
a somewhat abrupt conclusion.

"There is some one in the lounge there to whom I wish to speak,"
she said.  "Perhaps you won't mind if we finish later.  The floor
seems sticky tonight, or my feet are heavy."

Her partner made the best of it, as Lady Cynthia's partners,
nowadays, generally had to.  She even dispensed with his escort,
and walked across the lounge of Claridge's alone.  Sir Timothy
rose to his feet.  He had been sitting in a corner, half
sheltered by a pillar, and had fancied himself unseen.

"What a relief!" she exclaimed.  "Another turn and I should have
fainted through sheer boredom."

"Yet you are quite wonderful dancing," he said.  "I have been
watching you for some time."

"It is one of my expiring efforts," she declared, sinking into
the chair by his side.  "You know whose party it is, of course?
Old Lady Torrington's.  Quite a boy and girl affair.  Twenty-four
of us had dinner in the worst corner of the room.  I can hear the
old lady ordering the dinner now.  Charles with a long menu.  She
shakes her head and taps him on the wrist with her fan.
'Monsieur Charles, I am a poor woman.  Give me what there is--a
small, plain dinner--and charge me at your minimum.'  The dinner
was very small and very plain, the champagne was horribly sweet.
My partner talked of a new drill, his last innings for the
Household Brigade, and a wonderful round of golf he played last
Sunday week.  I was turned on to dance with a man who asked me to
marry him, a year ago, and I could feel him vibrating with
gratitude, as he looked at me, that I had refused.  I suppose I
am very haggard."

"Does that matter, nowadays?" Sir Timothy asked.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I am afraid it does.  The bone and the hank of hair stuff is
played out.  The dairy-maid style is coming in.  Plump little
Fanny Torrington had a great success to-night, in one of those
simple white dresses, you know, which look like a sack with a
hole cut in the top.  What are you doing here by yourself?"

"I have an engagement in a few minutes," he explained.  "My car
is waiting now.  I looked in at the club to dine, found my
favourite table taken and nearly every man I ever disliked
sidling up to tell me that he hears I am giving a wonderful party
on Thursday.  I decided not to dine there, after all, and Charles
found me a corner here.  I am going in five minutes."

"Where to?" she asked.  "Can't I come with you?"

"I fear not," he answered.  "I am going down in the East End."

"Adventuring?"

"More or less," he admitted.

Lady Cynthia became beautiful.  She was always beautiful when she
was not tired.

"Take me with you, please," she begged.

He shook his head.

"Not to be done!"

"Don't shake your head like that," she enjoined, with a little
grimace.  "People will think I am trying to borrow money from you
and that you are refusing me!  Just take me with you some of the
way.  I shall scream if I go back into that dancing-room again."

Sir Timothy glanced at the clock.

"If there is any amusement to you in a rather dull drive
eastwards--"

She was on her feet with the soft, graceful speed which had made
her so much admired before her present listlessness had set in.

"I'll get my cloak," she said.

They drove along the Embankment, citywards.  The heat of the city
seemed to rise from the pavements.  The wall of the Embankment
was lined with people, leaning over to catch the languid breeze
that crept up with the tide.  They crossed the river and threaded
their way through a nightmare of squalid streets, where half-dressed
men and women hung from the top windows and were even to be seen
upon the roof, struggling for air.  The car at last pulled up at the
corner of a long street.

"I am going down here," Sir Timothy announced.  "I shall be gone
perhaps an hour.  The neighbourhood is not a fit one for you to
be left alone in.  I shall have time to send you home.  The car
will be back here for me by the time I require it."

"Where are you going?" she asked curiously.  "Why can't I come
with you?"

"I am going where I cannot take you," was the firm reply.  "I
told you that before I started."

"I shall sit here and wait for you," she decided.  "I rather like
the neighbourhood.  There is a gentleman in shirt-sleeves,
leaning over the rail of the roof there, who has his eye on me.
I believe I shall be a success here--which is more than I can say
of a little further westwards."

Sir Timothy smiled slightly.  He had exchanged his hat for a
tweed cap, and had put on a long dustcoat.

"There is no gauge by which you may know the measure of your
success," he said.  "If there were--"

"If there were?" she asked, leaning a little forward and looking
at him with a touch of the old brilliancy in her eyes.

"If there were," he said, with a little show of mock gallantry,
"a very jealously-guarded secret might escape me.  I think you
will be quite all right here," he continued.  "It is an open
thoroughfare, and I see two policemen at the corner.  Hassell, my
chauffeur, too, is a reliable fellow.  We will be back within the
hour."

"We?" she repeated.

He indicated a man who had silently made his appearance during
the conversation and was standing waiting on the sidewalk.

"Just a companion.  I do not advise you to wait.  If you insist
--au revoir!"

Lady Cynthia leaned back in a corner of the car.

Through half-closed eyes she watched the two men on their way
down the crowded thoroughfare--Sir Timothy tall, thin as a lath,
yet with a certain elegance of bearing; the man at his side
shorter, his hands thrust into the pockets of his coat, his
manner one of subservience.  She wondered languidly as to their
errand in this unsavoury neighbourhood.  Then she closed her eyes
altogether and wondered about many things.

Sir Timothy and his companion walked along the crowded, squalid
street without speech.  Presently they turned to the right and
stopped in front of a public-house of some pretensions.

"This is the place?" Sir Timothy asked.

"Yes, sir!"

Both men entered.  Sir Timothy made his way to the counter, his
companion to a table near, where he took a seat and ordered a
drink.  Sir Timothy did the same.  He was wedged in between a
heterogeneous crowd of shabby, depressed but apparently not
ill-natured men and women.  A man in a flannel shirt and pair of
shabby plaid trousers, which owed their precarious position to a
pair of worn-out braces, turned a beery eye upon the newcomer.

"I'll 'ave one with you, guvnor," he said.

"You shall indeed," Sir Timothy assented.

"Strike me lucky but I've touched first time!" the man exclaimed.
"I'll 'ave a double tot of whisky," he added, addressing the
barman.  "Will it run to it, guvnor?"

"Certainly," was the cordial reply, "and the same to your
friends, if you will answer a question."

"Troop up, lads," the man shouted.  "We've a toff 'ere.  He ain't
a 'tec--I know the cut of them.  Out with the question."

"Serve every one who desires it with drinks," Sir Timothy
directed the barman.  "My question is easily answered.  Is this
the place which a man whom I understand they call Billy the
Tanner frequents?"

The question appeared to produce an almost uncomfortable
sensation.  The enthusiasm for the free drinks, however, was only
slightly damped, and a small forest of grimy hands was extended
across the counter.

"Don't you ask no questions about 'im, guvnor," Sir Timothy's
immediate companion advised earnestly.  "He'd kill you as soon as
look at you.  When Billy the Tanner's in a quarrelsome mood, I've
see 'im empty this place and the whole street, quicker than if a
mad dog was loose.  'E's a fair and 'oly terror, 'e is.  'E about
killed 'is wife, three nights ago, but there ain't a living soul
as 'd dare to stand in the witness-box about it."

"Why don't the police take a hand in the matter if the man is
such a nuisance?" Sir Timothy asked.

His new acquaintance, gripping a thick tumbler of spirits and
water with a hand deeply encrusted with the stains of his trade,
scoffed.

"Police!  Why, 'e'd take on any three of the police round these
parts!" he declared.  "Police!  You tell one on 'em that Billy
the Tanner's on the rampage, and you'll see 'em 'op it.  Cheero,
guvnor and don't you get curious about Billy.  It ain't 'ealthy."

The swing-door was suddenly opened.  A touslehaired urchin shoved
his face in.

"Billy the Tanner's coming!" he shouted.  "Cave, all!  He's been
'avin' a rare to-do in Smith's Court."

Then a curious thing happened.  The little crowd at the bar
seemed somehow to melt away.  Half-a-dozen left precipitately by
the door.  Half-a-dozen more slunk through an inner entrance into
some room beyond.  Sir Timothy's neighbour set down his tumbler
empty.  He was the last to leave.

"If you're going to stop 'ere, guvnor," he begged fervently, "you
keep a still tongue in your 'ead.  Billy ain't particular who it
is.  'E'd kill 'is own mother, if 'e felt like it.  'E'll swing
some day, sure as I stand 'ere, but 'e'll do a bit more mischief
first.  'Op it with me, guvnor, or get inside there."

"Jim's right," the man behind the bar agreed.  "He's a very nasty
customer, Bill the Tanner, sir.  If he's coming down, I'd clear
out for a moment.  You can go in the guvnor's sitting-room, if
you like."

Sir Timothy shook his head.

"Billy the Tanner will not hurt me," he said.  "As a matter of
fact, I came down to see him."

His new friend hesitated no longer but made for the door through
which most of his companions had already disappeared.  The barman
leaned across the counter.

"Guvnor," he whispered hoarsely, "I don't know what the game is,
but I've given you the office.  Billy won't stand no truck from
any one.  He's a holy terror."

Sir Timothy nodded.

"I quite understand," he said.

There was a moment's ominous silence.  The barman withdrew to the
further end of his domain and busied himself cleaning some
glasses.  Suddenly the door was swung open.  A man entered whose
appearance alone was calculated to inspire a certain amount of
fear.  He was tall, but his height escaped notice by reason of
the extraordinary breadth of his shoulders.  He had a coarse and
vicious face, a crop of red hair, and an unshaven growth of the
same upon his face.  He wore what appeared to be the popular
dress in the neighbourhood--a pair of trousers suspended by a
belt, and a dirty flannel shirt.  His hands and even his chest,
where the shirt fell away, were discoloured by yellow stains.  He
looked around the room at first with an air of disappointment.
Then he caught sight of Sir Timothy standing at the counter, and
he brightened up.

"Where's all the crowd, Tom?" he asked the barman.

"Scared of you, I reckon," was the brief reply.  "There was
plenty here a few minutes ago."

"Scared of me, eh?" the other repeated, staring hard at Sir
Timothy.  "Did you 'ear that, guvnor?"

"I heard it," Sir Timothy acquiesced.

Billy the Tanner began to cheer up.  He walked all round this
stranger.

"A toff!  A big toff!  I'll 'ave a drink with you, guvnor," he
declared, with a note of incipient truculence in his tone.

The barman had already reached up for two glasses but Sir Timothy
shook his head.

"I think not," he said.

There was a moment's silence.  The barman made despairing signs
at Sir Timothy.  Billy the Tanner was moistening his lips with
his tongue.

"Why not?" he demanded.

"Because I don't know you and I don't like you," was the bland
reply.

Billy the Tanner wasted small time upon preliminaries.  He spat
upon his hands.

"I dunno you and I don't like you," he retorted.  "D'yer know wot
I'm going to do?"

"I have no idea," Sir Timothy confessed.

"I'm going to make you look so that your own mother wouldn't know
you--then I'm going to pitch you into the street," he added, with
an evil grin.  "That's wot we does with big toffs who come
'anging around 'ere."

"Do you?" Sir Timothy said calmly.  "Perhaps my friend may have
something to say about that."

The man of war was beginning to be worked up.

"Where's your big friend?" he shouted.  "Come on!  I'll take on
the two of you."

The man who had met Sir Timothy in the street had risen to his
feet.  He strolled up to the two.  Billy the Tanner eyed him
hungrily.

"The two of you, d'yer 'ear?" he shouted.  "And 'ere's just a
flick for the toff to be going on with!"

He delivered a sudden blow at Sir Timothy--a full, vicious,
jabbing blow which had laid many a man of the neighbourhood in
the gutter.  To his amazement, the chin at which he had aimed
seemed to have mysteriously disappeared.  Sir Timothy himself was
standing about half-a-yard further away.  Billy the Tanner was
too used to the game to be off his balance, but he received at
that moment the surprise of his life.  With the flat of his hand
full open, Sir Timothy struck him across the cheek such a blow
that it resounded through the place, a blow that brought both the
inner doors ajar, that brought peering eyes from every direction.
There was a moment's silence.  The man's fists were clenched now,
there was murder in his face.  Sir Timothy stepped on one side.

"I am not a fighter," he said coolly, leaning back against the
marble table.  "My friend will deal with you."

Billy the Tanner glared at the newcomer, who had glided in
between him and Sir Timothy.

"You can come and join in, too," he shouted to Sir Timothy.
"I'll knock your big head into pulp when I've done with this
little job!"

The bully knew in precisely thirty seconds what had happened to
him.  So did the crowds who pressed back into the place through
the inner door. So did the barman.  So did the landlord, who had
made a cautious appearance through a trapdoor.  Billy the Tanner,
for the first time in his life, was fighting a better man.  For
two years he had been the terror of the neighbourhood, and he
showed now that at least he had courage.  His smattering of
science, however, appeared only ridiculous.  Once, through sheer
strength and blundering force, he broke down his opponent's guard
and struck him in the place that had dispatched many a man
before--just over the heart.  His present opponent scarcely
winced, and Billy the Tanner paid the penalty then for his years
of bullying.  His antagonist paused for a single second, as though
unnerved by the blow.  Red fire seemed to stream from his eyes.
Then it was all over.  With a sickening crash, Billy the Tanner
went down upon the sanded floor.  It was no matter of a count for
him.  He lay there like a dead man, and from the two doors the
hidden spectators streamed into the room.  Sir Timothy laid some
money upon the table.

"This fellow insulted me and my friend," he said.  "You see, he
has paid the penalty.  If he misbehaves again, the same thing
will happen to him.  I am leaving some money here with your
barman.  I shall be glad for every one to drink with me.
Presently, perhaps, you had better send for an ambulance or a
doctor."

A little storm of enthusiastic excitement, evidenced for the most
part in expletives of a lurid note, covered the retreat of Sir
Timothy and his companion.  Out in the street a small crowd was
rushing towards the place.  A couple of policemen seemed to be
trying to make up their minds whether it was a fine night.  An
inspector hurried up to them.

"What's doing in 'The Rising Sun'?" he demanded sharply.

"Some one's giving Billy the Tanner a hiding," one of the
policemen replied.

"Honest?"

"A fair, ripe, knock-out hiding," was the emphatic confirmation.
"I looked in at the window."

The inspector grinned.

"I'm glad you had the sense not to interfere," he remarked.

Sir Timothy and his companion reached the car.  The latter took a
seat by the chauffeur.  Sir Timothy stepped in.  It struck him
that Lady Cynthia was a little breathless.  Her eyes, too, were
marvellously bright.  Wrapped around her knees was the
chauffeur's coat.

"Wonderful!" she declared.  "I haven't had such a wonderful five
minutes since I can remember!  You are a dear to have brought me,
Sir Timothy."

"What do you mean?" he demanded.

"Mean?" she laughed, as the car swung around and they glided
away.  "You didn't suppose I was going to sit here and watch you
depart upon a mysterious errand?  I borrowed your chauffeur's
coat and his cap, and slunk down after you.  I can assure you I
looked the most wonderful female apache you ever saw!  And I saw
the fight.  It was better than any of the prize fights I have
ever been to.  The real thing is better than the sham, isn't it?"

Sir Timothy leaned back in his place and remained silent.  Soon
they passed out of the land of tired people, of stalls decked out
with unsavoury provender, of foetid smells and unwholesome-looking
houses.  They passed through a street of silent warehouses on to
the Embankment.  A stronger breeze came down between the curving
arc of lights.

"You are not sorry that you brought me?" Lady Cynthia asked,
suddenly holding out her hand.

Sir Timothy took it in his.  For some reason or other, he made no
answer at all.




CHAPTER XXVII


The car stopped in front of the great house in Grosvenor Square.
Lady Cynthia turned to her companion.

"You must come in, please," she said.  "I insist, if it is only
for five minutes."

Sir Timothy followed her across the hall to a curved recess,
where the footman who had admitted them touched a bell, and a
small automatic lift came down.

"I am taking you to my own quarters," she explained.  "They are
rather cut off but I like them--especially on hot nights."

They glided up to the extreme top of the house.  She opened the
gates and led the way into what was practically an attic
sitting-room, decorated in black and white.  Wide-flung doors
opened onto the leads, where comfortable chairs, a small table and
an electric standard were arranged.  They were far above the tops
of the other houses, and looked into the green of the Park.

"This is where I bring very few people," she said.  "This is
where, even after my twenty-eight years of fraudulent life, I am
sometimes myself.  Wait."

There were feminine drinks and sandwiches arranged on the table.
She opened the cupboard of a small sideboard just inside the
sitting-room, however, and produced whisky and a syphon of soda.
There was a pail of ice in a cool corner.  From somewhere in the
distance came the music of violins floating through the window of
a house where a dance was in progress.  They could catch a
glimpse of the striped awning and the long line of waiting
vehicles with their twin eyes of fire.  She curled herself up on
a settee, flung a cushion at Sir Timothy, who was already
ensconced in a luxurious easy-chair, and with a tumbler of iced
sherbet in one hand, and a cigarette in the other, looked across
at him.

"I am not sure," she said, "that you have not to-night dispelled
an illusion."

"What manner of one?" he asked.

"Above all things," she went on, "I have always looked upon you
as wicked.  Most people do.  I think that is one reason why so
many of the women find you attractive.  I suppose it is why I
have found you attractive."

The smile was back upon his lips.  He bowed a little, and,
leaning forward, dropped a chunk of ice into his whisky and soda.

"Dear Lady Cynthia," he murmured, "don't tell me that I am going
to slip back in your estimation into some normal place."

"I am not quite sure," she said deliberately.  "I have always
looked upon you as a kind of amateur criminal, a man who loved
black things and dark ways.  You know how weary one gets of the
ordinary code of morals in these days.  You were such a
delightful antidote.  And now, I am not sure that you have not
shaken my faith in you."

"In what way?"

"You really seem to have been engaged to-night in a very sporting
and philanthropic enterprise.  I imagined you visiting some den
of vice and mixing as an equal with these terrible people who
never seem to cross the bridges.  I was perfectly thrilled when I
put on your chauffeur's coat and hat and followed you."

"The story of my little adventure is a simple one," Sir Timothy
said.  "I do not think it greatly affects my character.  I
believe, as a matter of fact, that I am just as wicked as you
would have me be, but I have friends in every walk of life, and,
as you know, I like to peer into the unexpected places.  I had
heard of this man Billy the Tanner.  He beats women, and has
established a perfect reign of terror in the court and
neighbourhood where he lives.  I fear I must agree with you that
there were some elements of morality--of conforming, at any rate,
to the recognised standards of justice--in what I did.  You know,
of course, that I am a great patron of every form of boxing,
fencing, and the various arts of self-defence and attack.  I just
took along one of the men from my gymnasium who I knew was equal
to the job, to give this fellow a lesson."

"He did it all right," Lady Cynthia murmured.

"But this is where I think I re-establish myself," Sir Timothy
continued, the peculiar nature of his smile reasserting itself.
"I did not do this for the sake of the neighbourhood.  I did not
do it from any sense of justice at all.  I did it to provide for
myself an enjoyable and delectable spectacle."

She smiled lazily.

"That does rather let you out," she admitted.  "However, on the
whole I am disappointed.  I am afraid that you are not so bad as
people think."

"People?" he repeated.  "Francis Ledsam, for instance--my son-in-law
in posse?"

"Francis Ledsam is one of those few rather brilliant persons who
have contrived to keep sane without becoming a prig," she
remarked.

"You know why?" he reminded her.  "Francis Ledsam has been a
tremendous worker.  It is work which keeps a man sane.
Brilliancy without the capacity for work drives people to the
madhouse."

"Where we are all going, I suppose," she sighed.

"Not you," he answered.  "You have just enough--I don't know what
we moderns call it--soul, shall I say?--to keep you from the
muddy ways."

She rose to her feet and leaned over the rails.  Sir Timothy
watched her thoughtfully.  Her figure, notwithstanding its
suggestions of delicate maturity, was still as slim as a young
girl's.  She was looking across the tree-tops towards an angry
bank of clouds--long, pencil-like streaks of black on a purple
background.  Below, in the street, a taxi passed with grinding of
brakes and noisy horn.  The rail against which she leaned looked
very flimsy.  Sir Timothy stretched out his hand and held her
arm.

"My nerves are going with my old age," he apologised.  "That
support seems too fragile."

She did not move.  The touch of his fingers grew firmer.

"We have entered upon an allegory," she murmured.  "You are
preserving me from the depths."

He laughed harshly.

"I!" he exclaimed, with a sudden touch of real and fierce
bitterness which brought the light dancing into her eyes and a
spot of colour to her cheeks.  "I preserve you!  Why, you can
never hear my name without thinking of sin, of crime of some
sort!  Do you seriously expect me to ever preserve any one from
anything?"

"You haven't made any very violent attempts to corrupt me," she
reminded him.

"Women don't enter much into my scheme of life," he declared.
"They played a great part once.  It was a woman, I think, who
first headed me off from the pastures of virtue."

"I know," she said softly.  "It was Margaret's mother."

His voice rang out like a pistol-shot.

"How did you know that?"

She turned away from the rail and threw herself back in her
chair.  His hand, however, she still kept in hers.

"Uncle Joe was Minister at Rio, you know, the year it all
happened," she explained.  "He told us the story years ago--how
you came back from Europe and found things were not just as they
should be between Margaret's mother and your partner, and how you
killed your partner."

His nostrils quivered a little.  One felt that the fire of
suffering had touched him again for a moment.

"Yes, I killed him," he admitted.  "That is part of my creed.
The men who defend their honour in the Law Courts are men I know
nothing of.  This man would have wronged me and robbed me of my
honour.  I bade him defend himself in any way he thought well.
It was his life or mine.  He was a poor fighter and I killed
him."

"And Margaret's mother died from the shock."

"She died soon afterwards."

The stars grew paler.  The passing vehicles, with their brilliant
lights, grew fewer and fewer.  The breeze which had been so
welcome at first, turned into a cold night wind.  She led the way
back into the room.

"I must go," he announced.

"You must go," she echoed, looking up at him.  "Good-bye!"

She was so close to him that his embrace, sudden and passionate
though it was, came about almost naturally.  She lay in his arms
with perfect content and raised her lips to his.

He broke away.  He was himself again, self-furious.

"Lady Cynthia," he said, "I owe you my most humble apologies.
The evil that is in me does not as a rule break out in this
direction."

"You dear, foolish person," she laughed, "that was good, not
evil.  You like me, don't you?  But I know you do.  There is one
crime you have always forgotten to develop--you haven't the
simplest idea in the world how to lie."

"Yes, I like you," he admitted.  "I have the most absurd feeling
for you that any man ever found it impossible to put into words.
We have indeed strayed outside the world of natural things," he
added.

"Why?" she murmured.  "I never felt more natural or normal in my
life.  I can assure you that I am loving it.  I feel like muslin
gowns and primroses and the scent of those first March violets
underneath a warm hedge where the sun comes sometimes.  I feel
very natural indeed, Sir Timothy."

"What about me?" he asked harshly.  "In three weeks' time I shall
be fifty years old."

She laughed softly.

"And in no time at all I shall be thirty--and entering upon a
terrible period of spinsterhood!"

"Spinsterhood!" he scoffed.  "Why, whenever the Society papers
are at a loss for a paragraph, they report a few more offers of
marriage to the ever-beautiful Lady Cynthia."

"Don't be sarcastic," she begged.  "I haven't yet had the offer
of marriage I want, anyhow."

"You'll get one you don't want in a moment," he warned her.

She made a little grimace.

"Don't!" she laughed nervously.  "How am I to preserve my
romantic notions of you as the emperor of the criminal world, if
you kiss me as you did just now--you kissed me rather well--and
then ask me to marry you?  It isn't your role.  You must light a
cigarette now, pat the back of my hand, and swagger off to
another of your haunts of vice."

"In other words, I am not to propose?" Sir Timothy said slowly.

"You see how decadent I am," she sighed.  "I want to toy with my
pleasures.  Besides, there's that scamp of a brother of mine
coming up to have a drink--I saw him get out of a taxi--and you
couldn't get it through in time, not with dignity."

The rattle of the lift as it stopped was plainly audible.  He
stooped and kissed her fingers.

"I fear some day," he murmured, "I shall be a great
disappointment to you."




CHAPTER XXVIII


There was a great deal of discussion, the following morning at
the Sheridan Club, during the gossipy half-hour which preceded
luncheon, concerning Sir Timothy Brast's forthcoming
entertainment.  One of the men, Philip Baker, who had been for
many years the editor of a famous sporting weekly, had a ticket
of invitation which he displayed to an envious little crowd.

"You fellows who get invitations to these parties," a famous
actor declared, "are the most elusive chaps on earth.  Half
London is dying to know what really goes on there, and yet, if by
any chance one comes across a prospective or retrospective guest,
he is as dumb about it as though it were some Masonic function.
We've got you this time, Baler, though.  We'll put you under the
inquisition on Friday morning."

"There a won't be any need," the other replied.  "One hears a
great deal of rot talked about these affairs, but so far as I
know, nothing very much out of the way goes on.  There are always
one or two pretty stiff fights in the gymnasium, and you get the
best variety show and supper in the world."

"Why is there this aroma of mystery hanging about the affair,
then?" some one asked.

"Well, for one or two reasons," Baker answered.  "One, no doubt,
is because Sir Timothy has a great idea of arranging the fights
himself, and the opponents actually don't know until the fight
begins whom they are meeting, and sometimes not even then.  There
has been some gossiping, too, about the rules, and the weight of
the gloves, but that I know, nothing about."

"And the rest of the show?" a younger member enquired.  "Is it
simply dancing and music and that sort of thing?"

"Just a variety entertainment," the proud possessor of the
scarlet-hued ticket declared.  "Sir Timothy always has something
up his sleeve.  Last year, for instance, he had those six African
girls over from Paris in that queer dance which they wouldn't
allow in London at all.  This time no one knows what is going to
happen.  The house, as you know, is absolutely surrounded by that
hideous stone wall, and from what I have heard, reporters who try
to get in aren't treated too kindly.  Here's Ledsam.  Very likely
he knows more about it."

"Ledsam," some one demanded, as Francis joined the group, "are
you going to Sir Timothy Brast's show to-morrow night?"

"I hope so," Francis replied, producing his strip of pasteboard.

"Ever been before?"

"Never."

"Do you know what sort of a show it's going to be?" the actor
enquired.

"Not the slightest idea.  I don't think any one does.  That's
rather a feature of the affair, isn't it?"

"It is the envious outsider who has never received an invitation,
like myself," some one remarked, "who probably spreads these
rumours, for one always hears it hinted that some disgraceful and
illegal exhibition is on tap there--a new sort of drugging party,
or some novel form of debauchery."

"I don't think," Francis said quietly, "that Sir Timothy is quite
that sort of man."

"Dash it all, what sort of man is he?" the actor demanded.  "They
tell me that financially he is utterly unscrupulous, although he
is rolling in money.  He has the most Mephistophelian expression
of any man I ever met--looks as though he'd set his heel on any
one's neck for the sport of it--and yet they say he has given at
least fifty thousand pounds to the Society for the Prevention of
Cruelty to Animals, and that the whole of the park round that
estate of his down the river is full of lamed and decrepit beasts
which he has bought himself off the streets."

"The man must have an interesting personality," a novelist who
had joined the party observed.  "Of course, you know that he was
in prison for six months?"

"What for?" some one asked.

"Murder, only they brought it in manslaughter," was the terse
reply.  "He killed his partner.  It was many years ago, and no
one knows all the facts of the story."

"I am not holding a brief for Sir Timothy," Francis remarked, as
he sipped his cocktail.  "As a matter of fact, he and I are very
much at cross-purposes.  But as regards that particular instance,
I am not sure that he was very much to be blamed, any more than
you can blame any injured person who takes the law into his own
hands."

"He isn't a man I should care to have for an enemy," Baker
declared.

"Well, we'll shake the truth out of you fellows, somehow or
other," one of the group threatened.  "On Friday morning we are
going to have the whole truth--none of this Masonic secrecy which
Baker indulged in last year."

The men drifted in to luncheon and Francis, leaving them, took a
taxi on to the Ritz.  Looking about in the vestibule for
Margaret, he came face to face with Lady Cynthia.  She was
dressed with her usual distinction in a gown of yellow muslin and
a beflowered hat, and was the cynosure of a good many eyes.

"One would almost imagine, Lady Cynthia," he said, as they
exchanged greetings, "that you had found that elixir we were
talking about."

"Perhaps I have," she answered, smiling.  "Are you looking for
Margaret?  She is somewhere about.  We were just having a chat
when I was literally carried off by that terrible Lanchester
woman.  Let's find her."

They strolled up into the lounge.  Margaret came to meet them.
Her smile, as she gave Francis her left hand, transformed and
softened her whole appearance.

"You don't mind my having asked Cynthia to lunch with us?" she
said.  "I really couldn't get rid of the girl.  She came in to
see me this morning the most aggressively cheerful person I ever
knew.  I believe that she had an adventure last night.  All that
she will tell me is that she dined and danced at Claridge's with
a party of the dullest people in town."

A tall, familiar figure passed down the vestibule.  Lady Cynthia
gave a little start, and Francis, who happened to be watching
her, was amazed at her expression.

"Your father, Margaret!" she pointed out.  "I wonder if he is
lunching here."

"He told me that he was lunching somewhere with a South American
friend--one of his partners, I believe," Margaret replied.  "I
expect he is looking for him."

Sir Timothy caught sight of them, hesitated for a moment and came
slowly in their direction.

"Have you found your friend?" Margaret asked.

"The poor fellow is ill in bed," her father answered.  "I was
just regretting that I had sent the car away, or I should have
gone back to Hatch End."

"Stay and lunch with us," Lady Cynthia begged, a little
impetuously.

"I shall be very pleased if you will," Francis put in.  "I'll go
and tell the waiter to enlarge my table."

He hurried off.  On his way back, a page-boy touched him on the
arm.

"If you please, sir," he announced, "you are wanted on the
telephone."

"I?" Francis exclaimed.  "Some mistake, I should think.  Nobody
knows that I am here."

"Mr. Ledsam," the boy said.  "This way, sir."

Francis walked down the vestibule to the row of telephone boxes
at the further end.  The attendant who was standing outside,
indicated one of them and motioned the boy to go away.  Francis
stepped inside.  The man followed, closing the door behind him.

"I am asking your pardon, sir, for taking a great liberty," he
confessed.  "No one wants you on the telephone.  I wished to
speak to you."

Francis looked at him in surprise.  The man was evidently
agitated.  Somehow or other, his face was vaguely familiar.

"Who are you, and what do you want with me?" Francis asked.

"I was butler to Mr. Hilditch, sir," the man replied.  "I waited
upon you the night you dined there, sir--the night of Mr.
Hilditch's death."

"Well?"

"I have a revelation to make with regard to that night, sir," the
man went on, "which I should like to place in your hands.  It is
a very serious matter, and there are reasons why something must
be done about it at once.  Can I come and see you at your rooms,
sir?"

Francis studied the man for a moment intently.  He was evidently
agitated--evidently, too, in very bad health.  His furtive manner
was against him.  On the other hand, that might have arisen from
nervousness.

"I shall be in at half-past three, number 13 b, Clarges Street,"
Francis told him.

"I can get off for half-an-hour then, sir," the man replied.  "I
shall be very glad to come.  I must apologise for having troubled
you, sir."

Francis went slowly back to his trio of guests.  All the way down
the carpeted vestibule he was haunted by the grim shadow of a
spectral fear.  The frozen horror of that ghastly evening was
before him like a hateful tableau.  Hilditch's mocking words rang
in his cars: "My death is the one thing in the world which would
make my wife happy."  The Court scene, with all its gloomy
tragedy, rose before his eyes--only in the dock, instead of
Hilditch, he saw another!




CHAPTER XXIX


There were incidents connected with that luncheon which Francis
always remembered.  In the first place, Sir Timothy was a great
deal more silent than usual.  A certain vein of half-cynical,
half-amusing comment upon things and people of the moment, which
seemed, whenever he cared to exert himself, to flow from his lips
without effort, had deserted him.  He sat where the rather
brilliant light from the high windows fell upon his face, and
Francis wondered more than once whether there were not some
change there, perhaps some prescience of trouble to come, which
had subdued him and made him unusually thoughtful.  Another
slighter but more amusing feature of the luncheon was the number
of people who stopped to shake hands with Sir Timothy and made
more or less clumsy efforts to obtain an invitation to his coming
entertainment.  Sir Timothy's reply to these various hints was
barely cordial.  The most he ever promised was that he would
consult with his secretary and see if their numbers were already
full.  Lady Cynthia, as a somewhat blatant but discomfited Peer
of the Realm took his awkward leave of them, laughed softly.

"Of course, I think they all deserve what they get," she
declared.  "I never heard such brazen impudence in my life--from
people who ought to know better, too."

Lord Meadowson, a sporting peer, who was one of Sir Timothy's few
intimates, came over to the table.  He paid his respects to the
two ladies and Francis, and turned a little eagerly to Sir
Timothy.

"Well?" he asked.

Sir Timothy nodded.

"We shall be quite prepared for you," he said.  "Better bring
your cheque-book."

"Capital!" the other exclaimed.  "As I hadn't heard anything, I
was beginning to wonder whether you would be ready with your end
of the show."

"There will be no hitch so far as we are concerned," Sir Timothy
assured him.

"More mysteries?" Margaret enquired, as Meadowson departed with a
smile of satisfaction.

Her father shrugged his shoulders.

"Scarcely that," he replied.  "It is a little wager between Lord
Meadowson and myself which is to be settled to-morrow."

Lady Torrington, a fussy little woman, her hostess of the night
before, on her way down the room stopped and shook hands with
Lady Cynthia.

"Why, my dear," she exclaimed, "wherever did you vanish to last
night?  Claude told us all that, in the middle of a dance with
him, you excused yourself for a moment and he never saw you
again.  I quite expected to read in the papers this morning that
you had eloped."

"Precisely what I did," Lady Cynthia declared.  "The only trouble
was that my partner had had enough of me before the evening was
over, and deposited me once more in Grosvenor Square.  It is
really very humiliating," she went on meditatively, "how every
one always returns me."

"You talk such nonsense, Cynthia!" Lady Torrington exclaimed, a
little pettishly.  "However, you found your way home all right?"

"Quite safely, thank you.  I was going to write you a note this
afternoon.  I went away on an impulse.  All I can say is that I
am sorry.  Do forgive me."

"Certainly!" was the somewhat chilly reply.  "Somehow or other,
you seem to have earned the right to do exactly as you choose.
Some of my young men whom you had promised to dance with, were
disappointed, but after all, I suppose that doesn't matter."

"Not much," Lady Cynthia assented sweetly.  "I think a few
disappointments are good for most of the young men of to-day."

"What did you do last night, Cynthia?" Margaret asked her
presently, when Lady Torrington had passed on.

"I eloped with your father," Lady Cynthia confessed, smiling
across at Sir Timothy.  "We went for a little drive together and
I had a most amusing time.  The only trouble was, as I have been
complaining to that tiresome woman, he brought me home again."

"But where did you go to?" Margaret persisted.

"It was an errand of charity," Sir Timothy declared.

"It sounds very mysterious," Francis observed.  "Is that all we
are to be told?"

"I am afraid," Sir Timothy complained, "that very few people
sympathise with my hobbies or my prosecution of them.  That is
why such little incidents as last night's generally remain
undisclosed.  If you really wish to know what happened," he went
on, after a moment's pause, "I will tell you.  As you know, I
have a great many friends amongst the boxing fraternity, and I
happened to hear of a man down in the East End who has made
himself a terror to the whole community in which he lives.  I
took Peter Fields, my gymnasium instructor, down to the East End
last night, and Peter Fields--dealt with him."

"There was a fight?" Margaret exclaimed, with a little shudder.

"There was a fight," Sir Timothy repeated, "if you can call it
such.  Fields gave him some part of the punishment he deserved."

"And you were there, Cynthia?"

"I left Lady Cynthia in the car," Sir Timothy explained.  "She
most improperly bribed my chauffeur to lend her his coat and hat,
and followed me."

"You actually saw the fight, then?" Francis asked.

"I did," Lady Cynthia admitted.  "I saw it from the beginning to
the end."

Margaret looked across the table curiously.  It seemed to her
that her friend had turned a little paler.

"Did you like it?" she asked simply.

Lady Cynthia was silent for a moment.  She glanced at Sir
Timothy.  He, too, was waiting for her answer with evident
interest.

"I was thrilled," she acknowledged.  "That was the pleasurable
part of it I have been so, used to looking on at shows that bored
me, listening to conversations that wearied me, attempting
sensations which were repellent, that I just welcomed feeling,
when it came--feeling of any sort.  I was excited.  I forgot
everything else.  I was so fascinated that I could not look away.
But if you ask me whether I liked it, and I have to answer
truthfully, I hated it!  I felt nothing of the sort at the time,
but when I tried to sleep I found myself shivering.  It was
justice, I know, but it was ugly."

She watched Sir Timothy, as she made her confession, a little
wistfully.  He said nothing, but there was a very curious change
in his expression.  He smiled at her in an altogether unfamiliar
way.

"I suppose," she said, appealing to him, "that you are very
disappointed in me?"

"On the contrary," he answered, "I am delighted."

"You mean that?" she asked incredulously.

"I do," he declared.  "Companionship between our sexes is very
delightful so far as it goes, but the fundamental differences
between a man's outlook and tastes and a woman's should never be
bridged over.  I myself do not wish to learn to knit.  I do not
care for the womenkind in whom I am interested to appreciate and
understand fighting."

Margaret looked across the table in amazement.

"You are most surprising this morning, father," she declared.

"I am perhaps misunderstood," he sighed, "perhaps have acquired a
reputation for greater callousness than I possess.  Personally, I
love fighting.  I was born a fighter, and I should find no
happier way of ending my life than fighting, but, to put it
bluntly, fighting is a man's job."

"What about women going to see fights at the National Sporting
Club?" Lady Cynthia asked curiously.

"It is their own affair, but if you ask my opinion I do not
approve of it," Sir Timothy replied.  "I am indifferent upon the
subject, because I am indifferent upon the subject of the
generality of your sex," he added, with a little smile, "but I
simply hold that it is not a taste which should be developed in
women, and if they do develop it, it is at the expense of those
very qualities which make them most attractive."

Lady Cynthia took a cigarette from her case and leaned over to
Francis for a light.

"The world is changing," she declared.  "I cannot bear many more
shocks.  I fancied that I had written myself for ever out of Sir
Timothy's good books because of my confession just now."

He smiled across at her.  His words were words of courteous
badinage, but Lady Cynthia was conscious of a strange little
sense of pleasure.

"On the contrary," he assured her, "you found your way just a
little further into my heart."

"It seems to me, in a general sort of way," Margaret observed,
leaning back in her chair, "that you and my father are becoming
extraordinarily friendly, Cynthia."

"I am hopefully in love with your father," Lady Cynthia
confessed.  "It has been coming on for a long time.  I suspected
it the first time I ever met him.  Now I am absolutely certain."

"It's quite a new idea," Margaret remarked.  "Shall we like her
in the family, Francis?"

"No airs!" Lady Cynthia warned her.  "You two are not properly
engaged yet.  It may devolve upon me to give my consent."

"In that case," Francis replied, "I hope that we may at least
count upon your influence with Sir Timothy?"

"If you'll return the compliment and urge my suit with him," Lady
Cynthia laughed.  "I am afraid he can't quite make up his mind
about me, and I am so nice.  I haven't flirted nearly so much as
people think, and my instincts are really quite domestic."

"My position," Sir Timothy remarked, as he made an unsuccessful
attempt to possess himself of the bill which Francis had called
for, "is becoming a little difficult."

"Not really difficult," Lady Cynthia objected, "because the real
decision rests in your hands."

"Just listen to the woman!" Margaret exclaimed.  "Do you realise,
father, that Cynthia is making the most brazen advances to you?
And I was going to ask her if she'd like to come back to The
Sanctuary with us this evening!"

Lady Cynthia was suddenly eager.  Margaret glanced across at her
father.  Sir Timothy seemed almost imperceptibly to stiffen a
little.

"Margaret has carte blanche at The Sanctuary as regards her
visitors," he said.  "I am afraid that I shall be busy over at
The Walled House."

"But you'd come and dine with us?"

Sir Timothy hesitated.  An issue which had been looming in his
mind for many hours seemed to be suddenly joined.

"Please!" Lady Cynthia begged.

Sir Timothy followed the example of the others and rose to his
feet.  He avoided Lady Cynthia's eyes.  He seemed suddenly a
little tired.

"I will come and dine," he assented quietly.  "I am afraid that I
cannot promise more than that.  Lady Cynthia, as she knows, is
always welcome at The Sanctuary."




CHAPTER XXX


Punctual to his appointment that afternoon, the man who had
sought an interview with Francis was shown into the latter's
study in Clarges Street.

He wore an overcoat over his livery, and directly he entered the
room Francis was struck by his intense pallor.  He had been
trying feverishly to assure himself that all that the man
required was the usual sort of help, or assistance into a
hospital.  Yet there was something furtive in his visitor's
manner, something which suggested the bearer of a guilty secret.

"Please tell me what you want as quickly as you can," Francis
begged.  "I am due to start down into the country in a few
minutes."

"I won't keep you long, sir," the man replied.  "The matter is
rather a serious one."

"Are you ill?"

"Yes, sir!"

"You had better sit down."

The man relapsed gratefully into a chair.

"I'll leave out everything that doesn't count, sir," he said.
"I'll be as brief as I can.  I want you to go back to the night I
waited upon you at dinner the night Mr. Oliver Hilditch was found
dead.  You gave evidence.  The jury brought it in 'suicide.'  It
wasn't suicide at all, sir.  Mr. Hilditch was murdered."

The sense of horror against which he had been struggling during
the last few hours, crept once more through the whole being of
the man who listened.  He was face to face once more with that
terrible issue.  Had he perjured himself in vain?  Was the whole
structure of his dreams about to collapse, to fall about his
ears?

"By whom?" he faltered.

"By Sir Timothy Brast, sir."

Francis, who had been standing with his hand upon the table, felt
suddenly inclined to laugh.  Facile though his brain was, the
change of issues was too tremendous for him to readily assimilate
it.  He picked up a cigarette from an open box, with shaking
fingers, lit it, and threw himself into an easy-chair.  He was
all the time quite unconscious of what he was doing.

"Sir Timothy Brast?" he repeated.

"Yes, sir," the man reiterated.  "I wish to tell you the whole
story."

"I am listening," Francis assured him.

"That evening before dinner, Sir Timothy Brast called to see Mr.
Hilditch, and a very stormy interview took place.  I do not know
the rights of that, sir.  I only know that there was a fierce
quarrel.  Mrs. Hilditch came in and Sir Timothy left the house.
His last words to Mr. Hilditch were, 'You will hear from me again.'
As you know, sir--I mean as you remember, if you followed the
evidence--all the servants slept at the back of the house.  I
slept in the butler's room downstairs, next to the plate pantry.
I was awake when you left, sitting in my easy-chair, reading.
Ten minutes after you had left, there was a sound at the front
door as though some one had knocked with their knuckles.  I got
up, to open it but Mr. Hilditch was before me.  He admitted Sir
Timothy.  They went back into the library together.  It struck me
that Mr. Hilditch had had a great deal to drink, and there was a
queer look on Sir Timothy's face that I didn't understand.  I
stepped into the little room which communicates with the library
by folding doors.  There was a chink already between the two.  I
got a knife from the pantry and widened it until I could see
through.  I heard very little of the conversation but there was
no quarrel.  Mr. Hilditch took up the weapon which you know about,
sat in a chair and held it to his heart.  I heard him say something
like this.  'This ought to appeal to you, Sir Timothy.  You're a
specialist in this sort of thing.  One little touch, and there you
are.'  Mrs. Hilditch said something about putting it away.  My
master turned to Sir Timothy and said something in a low tone.
Suddenly Sir Timothy leaned over.  He caught hold of Mr. Hilditch's
hand which held the hilt of the dagger, and and--well, he just
drove it in, sir.  Then he stood away.  Mrs. Hilditch sprang up
and would have screamed, but Sir Timothy placed his hand over her
mouth.  In a moment I heard her say, 'What have you done?'  Sir
Timothy looked at Mr. Hilditch quite calmly.  'I have ridded the
world of a verminous creature,' he said.  My knees began to shake.
My nerves were always bad.  I crept back into my room, took off my
clothes and got into bed.  I had just put the light out when they
called for me."

Francis was himself again.  There was an immense relief, a joy in
his heart.  He had never for a single moment blamed Margaret, but
he had never for a single moment forgotten.  It was a closed
chapter but the stain was on its pages.  It was wonderful to tear
it out and scatter the fragments.

"I remember you at the inquest," he said.  "Your name is John
Walter."

"Yes, sir."

"Your evidence was very different."

"Yes, sir."

"You kept all this to yourself."

"I did, sir.  I thought it best."

"Tell me what has happened since?"

The man looked down at the table.

"I have always been a poor man, sir," he said.  "I have had bad
luck whenever I've made a try to start at anything.  I thought
there seemed a chance for me here.  I went to Sir Timothy and I
told him everything."

"Well?"

"Sir Timothy never turned a hair, sir.  When I had finished he
was very short with me, almost curt.  'You have behaved like a
man of sense, Walter,' he said.  'How much?'  I hesitated for
some time.  Then I could see he was getting impatient.  I doubled
what I had thought of first.  'A thousand pounds, sir,' I said.
Sir Timothy he went to a safe in the wall and he counted out a
thousand pounds in notes, there and then.  He brought them over
to me.  'Walter,' he said, 'there is your thousand pounds.  For
that sum I understand you promise to keep what you saw to
yourself?'  'Yes, sir,' I agreed.  'Take it, then,' he said, 'but
I want you to understand this.  There have been many attempts but
no one yet has ever succeeded in blackmailing me.  No one ever
will.  I give you this thousand pounds willingly.  It is what you
have asked for.  Never let me see your face again.  If you come
to me starving, it will be useless.  I shall not part with
another penny.'"

The man's simple way of telling his story, his speech, slow and
uneven on account of his faltering breath, seemed all to add to
the dramatic nature of his disclosure.  Francis found himself
sitting like a child who listens to a fairy story.

"And then?" he asked simply.

"I went off with the money," Walter continued, "and I had cruel
bad luck.  I put it into a pub.  I was robbed a little, I drank a
little, my wife wasn't any good.  I lost it all, sir.  I found
myself destitute.  I went back to Sir Timothy."

"Well?"

The man shifted his feet nervously.  He seemed to have come to
the difficult part of his story.

"Sir Timothy was as hard as nails," he said slowly.  "He saw me.
The moment I had finished, he rang the bell.  'Hedges,' he said
to the manservant who came in, 'this man has come here to try and
blackmail me.  Throw him out.  If he gives any trouble, send for
the police.  If he shows himself here again, send for the
police."'

"What happened then?"

"Well, I nearly blurted out the whole story," the man confessed,
"and then I remembered that wouldn't do me any good, so I went
away.  I got a job at the Ritz, but I was took ill a few days
afterwards.  I went to see a doctor.  From him I got my
death-warrant, sir."

"Is it heart?"

"It's heart, sir," the man acknowledged.  "The doctor told me I
might snuff out at any moment.  I can't live, anyway, for more
than a year.  I've got a little girl."

"Now just why have you come to see me?" Francis asked.

"For just this, sir," the man replied.  "Here's my account of
what happened," he went on, drawing some sheets of foolscap from
his pocket.  "It's written in my own hand and there are two
witnesses to my signature--one a clergyman, sir, and the other a
doctor, they thinking it was a will or something.  I had it in my
mind to send that to Scotland Yard, and then I remembered that I
hadn't a penny to leave my little girl.  I began to wonder--think
as meanly of me as you like, sir--how I could still make some
money out of this.  I happened to know that you were none too
friendly disposed towards Sir Timothy.  This confession of mine,
if it wouldn't mean hanging, would mean imprisonment for the rest
of his life.  You could make a better bargain with him than me,
sir.  Do you want to hold him in your power?  If so, you can have
this confession, all signed and everything, for two hundred
pounds, and as I live, sir, that two hundred pounds is to pay for
my funeral, and the balance for my little girl."

Francis took the papers and glanced them through.

"Supposing I buy this document from you," he said, "what is its
actual value?  You could write out another confession, get that
signed, and sell it to another of Sir Timothy's enemies, or you
could still go to Scotland Yard yourself."

"I shouldn't do that, sir, I assure you," the man declared
nervously, "not on my solemn oath.  I want simply to be quit of
the whole matter and have a little money for the child."

Francis considered for a moment.

"There is only one way I can see," he said, "to make this
document worth the money to me.  If you will sign a confession
that any statement you have made as to the death of Mr. Hilditch
is entirely imaginary, that you did not see Sir Timothy in the
house that night, that you went to bed at your usual time and
slept until you were awakened, and that you only made this charge
for the purpose of extorting money--if you will sign a confession
to that effect and give it me with these papers, I will pay you
the two hundred pounds and I will never use the confession unless
you repeat the charge."

"I'll do it, sir," the man assented.

Francis drew up a document, which his visitor read through and
signed.  Then he wrote out an open cheque.

"My servant shall take you to the bank in a taxi," he said.
"They would scarcely pay you this unless you were identified.  We
understand one another?"

"Perfectly, sir!"

Francis rang the bell, gave his servant the necessary orders, and
dismissed the two men.  Half-an-hour later, already changed into
flannels, he was on his way into the country.




CHAPTER XXXI


Sir Timothy walked that evening amongst the shadows.  Two hours
ago, the last of the workmen from the great furnishing and
catering establishments who undertook the management of his
famous entertainments, had ceased work for the day and driven off
in the motor-brakes hired to take them to the nearest town.  The
long, low wing whose use no one was able absolutely to divine,
was still full of animation, but the great reception-rooms and
stately hall were silent and empty.  In the gymnasium, an
enormous apartment as large as an ordinary concert hall, two or
three electricians were still at work, directed by the man who
had accompanied Sir Timothy to the East End on the night before.
The former crossed the room, his footsteps awaking strange
echoes.

"There will be seating for fifty, sir, and standing room for
fifty," he announced.  "I have had the ring slightly enlarged, as
you suggested, and the lighting is being altered so that the
start is exactly north and south."

Sir Timothy nodded thoughtfully.  The beautiful oak floor of the
place was littered with sawdust and shavings of wood.  Several
tiers of seats had been arranged on the space usually occupied by
swings, punching-balls and other artifices.  On a slightly raised
dais at the further end was an exact replica of a ring, corded
around and with sawdust upon the floor.  Upon the walls hung a
marvellous collection of weapons of every description, from the
modern rifle to the curved and terrible knife used by the most
savage of known tribes.

"How are things in the quarters?" Sir Timothy asked.

"Every one is well, sir.  Doctor Ballantyne arrived this
afternoon.  His report is excellent."

Sir Timothy nodded and turned away.  He looked into the great
gallery, its waxen floors shining with polish, ready for the feet
of the dancers on the morrow; looked into a beautiful concert-room,
with an organ that reached to the roof; glanced into the banquetting
hall, which extended far into the winter-garden; made his way up
the broad stairs, turned down a little corridor, unlocked a door and
passed into his own suite.  There was a small dining-room, a library,
a bedroom, and a bathroom fitted with every sort of device.  A
man-servant who had heard him enter, hurried from his own apartment
across the way.

"You are not dining here, sir? "he enquired.

Sir Timothy shook his head.

"No, I am dining late at The Sanctuary," he replied.  "I just
strolled over to see how the preparations were going on.  I shall
be sleeping over there, too.  Any prowlers?"

"Photographer brought some steps and photographed the horses in
the park from the top of the wall this afternoon, sir," the man
announced.  "Jenkins let him go.  Two or three pressmen sent in
their cards to you, but they were not allowed to pass the lodge."

Sir Timothy nodded.  Soon he left the house and crossed the park
towards The Sanctuary.  He was followed all the way by horses, of
which there were more than thirty in the great enclosure.  One
mare greeted him with a neigh of welcome and plodded slowly after
him.  Another pressed her nose against his shoulder and walked by
his side, with his hand upon her neck.  Sir Timothy looked a
little nervously around, but the park itself lay almost like a
deep green pool, unobserved, and invisible from anywhere except
the house itself.  He spoke a few words to each of the horses,
and, producing his key, passed through the door in the wall into
The Sanctuary garden, closing it quickly as he recognised Francis
standing under the cedar-tree.

"Has Lady Cynthia arrived yet?" he enquired.

"Not yet," Francis replied.  "Margaret will be here in a minute.
She told me to say that cocktails are here and that she has
ordered dinner served on the terrace."

"Excellent!" Sir Timothy murmured.  "Let me try one of your
cigarettes."

"Everything ready for the great show to-morrow night?" Francis
asked, as he served the cocktails.

"Everything is in order.  I wonder, really," Sir Timothy went on,
looking at Francis curiously, "what you expect to see?"

"I don't think we any of us have any definite idea," Francis
replied.  "We have all, of course, made our guesses."

"You will probably be disappointed," Sir Timothy warned him.
"For some reason or other--perhaps I have encouraged the idea
--people look upon my parties as mysterious orgies where things
take place which may not be spoken of.  They are right to some
extent.  I break the law, without a doubt, but I break it, I am
afraid, in rather a disappointing fashion."

A limousine covered in dust raced in at the open gates and came
to a standstill with a grinding of brakes.  Lady Cynthia stepped
lightly out and came across the lawn to them.

"I am hot and dusty and I was disagreeable," she confided, "but
the peace of this wonderful place, and the sight of that
beautiful silver thing have cheered me.  May I have a cocktail
before I go up to change?  I am a little late, I know," she went.
on, "but that wretched garden-party!  I thought my turn would
never come to receive my few words.  Mother would have been
broken-hearted if I had left without them.  What slaves we are to
royalty!  Now shall I hurry and change?  You men have the air of
wanting your dinner, and I am rather that way myself.  You look
tired, dear host," she added, a little hesitatingly.

"The heat," he answered.

"Why you ever leave this spot I can't imagine," she declared, as
she turned away, with a lingering glance around.  "It seems like
Paradise to come here and breathe this air.  London is like a
furnace."

The two men were alone again.  In Francis' pocket were the two
documents, which he had not yet made up his mind how to use.
Margaret came out to them presently, and he strolled away with
her towards the rose garden.

"Margaret," he said, "is it my fancy or has there been a change
in your father during the last few days?"

"There is a change of some sort," she admitted.  "I cannot
describe it.  I only know it is there.  He seems much more
thoughtful and less hard.  The change would be an improvement,"
she went on, "except that somehow or other it makes me feel
uneasy.  It is as though he were grappling with some crisis."

They came to a standstill at the end of the pergola, where the
masses of drooping roses made the air almost faint with their
perfume.  Margaret stretched out her hand, plucked a handful of
the creamy petals and held them against her cheek.  A thrush was
singing noisily.  A few yards away they heard the soft swish of
the river.

"Tell me," she asked curiously, "my father still speaks of you as
being in some respects an enemy.  What does he mean?"

"I will tell you exactly," he answered.  "The first time I ever
spoke to your father I was dining at Soto's.  I was talking to
Andrew Wilmore.  It was only a short time after you had told me
the story of Oliver Hilditch, a story which made me realise the
horror of spending one's life keeping men like that out of the
clutch of the law."

"Go on, please," she begged.

"Well, I was talking to Andrew.  I told him that in future I
should accept no case unless I not only believed in but was
convinced of the innocence of my client.  I added that I was at
war with crime.  I think, perhaps, I was so deeply in earnest
that I may have sounded a little flamboyant.  At any rate, your
father, who had overheard me, moved up to our table.  I think he
deduced from what I was saying that I was going to turn into a
sort of amateur crime-investigator, a person who I gathered later
was particularly obnoxious to him.  At any rate, he held out a
challenge.  'If you are a man who hates crime,' he said, or
something like it, 'I am one who loves it.'  He then went on to
prophesy that a crime would be committed close to where we were,
within an hour or so, and he challenged me to discover the
assassin.  That night Victor Bidlake was murdered just outside
Soto's."

"I remember!  Do you mean to tell me, then," Margaret went on,
with a little shiver, "that father told you this was going to
happen?"

"He certainly did," Francis replied.  "How his knowledge came I
am not sure--yet.  But he certainly knew."

"Have you anything else against him?" she asked.

"There was the disappearance of Andrew Wilmore's younger brother,
Reginald Wilmore.  I have no right to connect your father with
that, but Shopland, the Scotland Yard detective, who has charge
of the case, seems to believe that the young man was brought into
this neighbourhood, and some other indirect evidence which came
into my hands does seem to point towards your father being
concerned in the matter.  I appealed to him at once but he only
laughed at me.  That matter, too, remains a mystery."

Margaret was thoughtful for a moment.  Then she turned towards
the house.  They heard the soft ringing of the gong.

"Will you believe me when I tell you this?" she begged, as they
passed arm in arm down the pergola.  "I am terrified of my
father, though in many ways he is almost princely in his
generosity and in the broad view he takes of things.  Then his
kindness to all dumb animals, and the way they love him, is the
most amazing thing I ever knew.  If we were alone here to-night,
every animal in the house would be around his chair.  He has even
the cats locked up if we have visitors, so that no one shall see
it.  But I am quite honest when I tell you this--I do not believe
that my father has the ordinary outlook upon crime.  I believe
that there is a good deal more of the Old Testament about him
than the New."

"And this change which we were speaking about?" he asked,
lowering his voice as they reached the lawn.

"I believe that somehow or other the end is coming," she said.
"Francis, forgive me if I tell you this--or rather let me be
forgiven--but I know of one crime my father has committed, and it
makes me fear that there may be others.  And I have the feeling,
somehow, that the end is close at hand and that he feels it, just
as we might feel a thunder-storm in the air."

"I am going to prove the immemorial selfishness of my sex," he
whispered, as they drew near the little table.  "Promise me one
thing and I don't care if your father is Beelzebub himself.
Promise me that, whatever happens, it shall not make any
difference to us?"

She smiled at him very wonderfully, a smile which had to take the
place of words, for there were servants now within hearing, and
Sir Timothy himself was standing in the doorway.




CHAPTER XXXII


Lady Cynthia and Sir Timothy strolled after dinner to the bottom
of the lawn and watched the punt which Francis was propelling
turn from the stream into the river.

"Perfectly idyllic," Lady Cynthia sighed.

"We have another punt," her companion suggested.

She shook her head.

"I am one of those unselfish people," she declared, "whose idea
of repose is not only to rest oneself but to see others rest.  I
think these two chairs, plenty of cigarettes, and you in your
most gracious and discoursive mood, will fill my soul with
content."

"Your decision relieves my mind," her companion declared, as he
arranged the cushions behind her back.  "I rather fancy myself
with a pair of sculls, but a punt-pole never appealed to me.  We
will sit here and enjoy the peace.  To-morrow night you will find
it all disturbed--music and raucous voices and the stampede of my
poor, frightened horses in the park.  This is really a very
gracious silence."

"Are those two really going to marry?" Lady Cynthia asked, moving
her head lazily in the direction of the disappearing punt.

"I imagine so."

"And you?  What are you going to do then?"

"I am planning a long cruise.  I telegraphed to Southampton to-day.
I am having my yacht provisioned and prepared.  I think I shall go
over to South America."

She was silent for a moment.

"Alone?" she asked presently.

"I am always alone," he answered.

"That is rather a matter of your own choice, is it not?"

"Perhaps so.  I have always found it hard to make friends.
Enemies seem to be more in my line."

"I have not found it difficult to become your friend," she
reminded him.

"You are one of my few successes," he replied.

She leaned back with half-closed eyes.  There was nothing new
about their environment--the clusters of roses, the perfume of
the lilies in the rock garden, the even sweeter fragrance of the
trim border of mignonette.  Away in the distance, the night was
made momentarily ugly by the sound of a gramophone on a passing
launch, yet this discordant note seemed only to bring the perfection
of present things closer.  Back across the velvety lawn, through the
feathery strips of foliage, the lights of The Sanctuary, shaded and
subdued, were dimly visible.  The dining-table under the cedar-tree
had already been cleared.  Hedges, newly arrived from town to play
the major domo, was putting the finishing touches to a little array
of cool drinks.  And beyond, dimly seen but always there, the wall.
She turned to him suddenly.

"You build a wall around your life," she said, "like the wall
which encircles your mystery house.  Last night I thought that I
could see a little way over the top.  To-night you are different."

"If I am different," he answered quietly, "it is because, for the
first time for many years, I have found myself wondering whether
the life I had planned for myself, the things which I had planned
should make life for me, are the best.  I have had doubts--perhaps
I might say regrets."

"I should like to go to South America," Lady Cynthia declared
softly.

He finished the cigarette which he was smoking and deliberately
threw away the stump.  Then he turned and looked at her.  His
face seemed harder than ever, clean-cut, the face of a man able
to defy Fate, but she saw something in his eyes which she had
never seen before.

"Dear child," he said, "if I could roll back the years, if from
all my deeds of sin, as the world knows sin, I could cancel one,
there is nothing in the world would make me happier than to ask
you to come with me as my cherished companion to just whatever
part of the world you cared for.  But I have been playing pitch
and toss with fortune all my life, since the great trouble came
which changed me so much.  Even at this moment, the coin is in
the air which may decide my fate."

"You mean?" she ventured.

"I mean," he continued, "that after the event of which we spoke
last night, nothing in life has been more than an incident, and I
have striven to find distraction by means which none of you--not
even you, Lady Cynthia, with all your breadth of outlook and all
your craving after new things--would justify."

"Nothing that you may have done troubles me in the least," she
assured him.  "I do wish that you could put it all out of your
mind and let me help you to make a fresh start."

"I may put the thing itself out of my mind," he answered sadly,
"but the consequences remain."

"There is a consequence which threatens?" she asked.

He was silent for a moment.  When he spoke again, he had
recovered all his courage.

"There is the coin in the air of which I spoke," he replied.
"Let us forget it for a moment.  Of the minor things I will
make you my judge.  Ledsam and Margaret are coming to my party
to-morrow night.  You, too, shall be my guest.  Such secrets as
lie on the other side of that wall shall be yours.  After that,
if I survive your judgment of them, and if the coin which I have
thrown into the air comes, down to the tune I call--after that--I
will remind you of something which happened last night--of
something which, if I live for many years, I shall never forget."

She leaned towards him.  Her eyes were heavy with longing.  Her
arms, sweet and white in the dusky twilight, stole hesitatingly
out.

"Last night was so long ago.  Won't you take a later memory?"

Once again she lay in his arms, still and content.

As they crossed the lawn, an hour or so later, they were
confronted by Hedges--who hastened, in fact, to meet them.

"You are being asked for on the telephone, sir," he announced.
"It is a trunk call.  I have switched it through to the study."

"Any name?" Sir Timothy asked indifferently.

The man hesitated.  His eyes sought his master's respectfully but
charged with meaning.

"The person refuses to give his name, sir, but I fancied that I
recognised his voice.  I think it would be as well for you to
speak, sir."

Lady Cynthia sank into a chair.

"You shall go and answer your telephone call," she said, "and
leave Hedges to serve me with one of these strange drinks.  I
believe I see some of my favourite orangeade."

Sir Timothy made his way into the house and into the low,
oak-beamed study with its dark furniture and latticed windows.
The telephone bell began to ring again as he entered.  He took
up the receiver.

"Sir Timothy?" a rather hoarse, strained voice asked.

"I am speaking," Sir Timothy replied.  "Who is it?"

The man at the other end spoke as though he were out of breath.
Nevertheless, what he said was distinct enough.

"I am John Walter."

"Well?"

"I am just ringing you up," the voice went on, "to give you
what's called a sporting chance.  There's a boat from Southampton
midday tomorrow.  If you're wise, you'll catch it.  Or better
still, get off on your own yacht.  They carry a wireless now,
these big steamers.  Don't give a criminal much of a chance, does
it?"

"I am to understand, then," Sir Timothy said calmly, "that you
have laid your information?"

"I've parted with it and serve you right," was the bitter reply.
"I'm not saying that you're not a brave man, Sir Timothy, but
there's such a thing as being foolhardy, and that's what you are.
I wasn't asking you for half your fortune, nor even a dab of it,
but if your life wasn't worth a few hundred pounds--you, with all
that money--well, it wasn't worth saving.  So now you know.  I've
spent ninepence to give you a chance to hop it, because I met a
gent who has been good to me.  I've had a good dinner and I feel
merciful.  So there you are."

"Do I gather," Sir Timothy asked, in a perfectly level tone,
"that the deed is already done?"

"It's already done and done thoroughly," was the uncompromising
answer.  "I'm not ringing up to ask you to change your mind.  If
you were to offer me five thousand now, or ten, I couldn't stop
the bally thing.  You've a sporting chance of getting away if you
start at once.  That's all there is to it."

"You have nothing more to say?"

"Nothing!  Only I wish to God I'd never stepped into that Mayfair
agency.  I wish I'd never gone to Mrs. Hilditch's as a temporary
butler.  I wish I'd never seen any one of you!  That's all.  You
can go to Hell which way you like, only, if you take my advice,
you'll go by the way of South America.  The scaffold isn't every
man's fancy."

There was a burr of the instrument and then silence.  Sir Timothy
carefully replaced the receiver, paused on his way out of the
room to smell a great bowl of lavender, and passed back into the
garden.

"More applicants for invitations?" Lady Cynthia enquired lazily.

Her host smiled.

"Not exactly!  Although," he added, "as a matter of fact my party
would have been perhaps a little more complete with the presence
of the person to whom I have been speaking."

Lady Cynthia pointed to the stream, down which the punt was
slowly drifting.  The moon had gone behind a cloud, and Francis'
figure, as he stood there, was undefined and ghostly.  A thought
seemed to flash into her mind.  She leaned forward.

"Once," she said, "he told me that he was your enemy."

"The term is a little melodramatic," Sir Timothy protested.  "We
look at certain things from opposite points of view.  You see, my
prospective son-in-law, if ever he becomes that, represents the
law--the Law with a capital 'L'--which recognises no human errors
or weaknesses, and judges crime out of the musty books of the
law-givers of old.  He makes of the law a mechanical thing which
can neither bend nor give, and he judges humanity from the same
standpoint.  Yet at heart he is a good fellow and I like him."

"And you?"

"My weakness lies the other way," he confessed, "and my sympathy
is with those who do not fear to make their own laws."

She held out her hand, white and spectral in the momentary gloom.
At the other end of the lawn, Francis and Margaret were
disembarking from the punt.

"Does it sound too shockingly obvious," she murmured, "if I say
that I want to make you my law?"




CHAPTER XXXIII


It would have puzzled anybody, except, perhaps, Lady Cynthia
herself, to have detected the slightest alteration in Sir
Timothy's demeanour during the following day, when he made fitful
appearances at The Sanctuary, or at the dinner which was served a
little earlier than usual, before his final departure for the
scene of the festivities.  Once he paused in the act of helping
himself to some dish and listened for a moment to the sound of
voices in the hall, and when a taxicab drove up he set down his
glass and again betrayed some interest.

"The maid with my frock, thank heavens!" Lady Cynthia announced,
glancing out of the window.  "My last anxiety is removed.  I am
looking forward now to a wonderful night."

"You may very easily be disappointed," her host warned her.  "My
entertainments appeal more, as a rule, to men."

"Why don't you be thoroughly original and issue no invitations to
women at all?" Margaret enquired.

"For the same reason that you adorn your rooms and the dinner-table
with flowers," he answered.  "One needs them--as a relief.  Apart
from that, I am really proud of my dancing-room, and there again,
you see, your sex is necessary."

"We are flattered," Margaret declared, with a little bow.  "It
does seem queer to think that you should own what Cynthia's
cousin, Davy Hinton, once told me was the best floor in London,
and that I have never danced on it."

"Nor I," Lady Cynthia put in.  "There might have been some excuse
for not asking you, Margaret, but why an ultra-Bohemian like
myself has had to beg and plead for an invitation, I really
cannot imagine."

"You might find," Sir Timothy said, "you may even now--that some
of my men guests are not altogether to your liking."

"Quite content to take my risk," Lady Cynthia declared
cheerfully.  "The man with the best manners I ever met--it was at
one of Maggie's studio dances, too--was a bookmaker.  And a
retired prize-fighter brought me home once from an Albert Hall
dance."

"How did he behave?" Francis asked.

"He was wistful but restrained," Lady Cynthia replied, "quite the
gentleman, in fact."

"You encourage me to hope for the best," Sir Timothy said, rising
to his feet.  "You will excuse me now?  I have a few final
preparations to make."

"Are we to be allowed," Margaret enquired, "to come across the
park?"

"You would not find it convenient," her father assured her.  "You
had better order a car, say for ten o'clock.  Don't forget to
bring your cards of invitation, and find me immediately you
arrive.  I wish to direct your proceedings to some extent."

Lady Cynthia strolled across with him to the postern-gate and
stood by his side after he had opened it.  Several of the
animals, grazing in different parts of the park, pricked up their
ears at the sound.  An old mare came hobbling towards him; a
flea-bitten grey came trotting down the field, his head in the
air, neighing loudly.

"You waste a great deal of tenderness upon your animal friends,
dear host," she murmured.

He deliberately looked away from her.

"The reciprocation, at any rate, has its disadvantages," he
remarked, glancing a little disconsolately at the brown hairs
upon his coat-sleeve.  "I shall have to find another coat before
I can receive my guests--which is a further reason," he added,
"why I must hurry."

At the entrance to the great gates of The Walled House, two men
in livery were standing.  One of them examined with care the red
cards of invitation, and as soon as he was satisfied the gates
were opened by some unseen agency.  The moment the car had passed
through, they were closed again.

"Father seems thoroughly mediaeval over this business," Margaret
remarked, looking about her with interest.  "What a quaint
courtyard, too!  It really is quite Italian."

"It seems almost incredible that you have never been here!" Lady
Cynthia exclaimed.  "Curiosity would have brought me if I had had
to climb over the wall!"

"It does seem absurd in one way," Margaret agreed, "but, as a
matter of fact, my father's attitude about the place has always
rather set me against it.  I didn't feel that there was any
pleasure to be gained by coming here.  I won't tell you really
what I did think.  We must keep to our bargain.  We are not to
anticipate."

At the front entrance, under the covered portico, the white
tickets which they had received in exchange for their tickets of
invitation, were carefully collected by another man, who stopped
the car a few yards from the broad, curving steps.  After that,
there was no more suggestion of inhospitality.  The front doors,
which were of enormous size and height, seemed to have been
removed, and in the great domed hall beyond Sir Timothy was
already receiving his guests.  Being without wraps, the little
party made an immediate entrance.  Sir Timothy, who was talking
to one of the best-known of the foreign ambassadors, took a step
forward to meet them.

"Welcome," he said, "you, the most unique party, at least,
amongst my guests.  Prince, may I present you to my daughter,
Mrs. Hilditch?  Lady Cynthia Milton and Mr. Ledsam you know, I
believe."

"Your father has just been preparing me for this pleasure," the
Prince remarked, with a smile.  "I am delighted that his views as
regards these wonderful parties are becoming a little more--would
it be correct to say latitudinarian?  He has certainly been very
strict up to now."

"It is the first time I have been vouchsafed an invitation,"
Margaret confessed.

"You will find much to interest you," the Prince observed.  "For
myself, I love the sport of which your father is so noble a
patron.  That, without doubt, though, is a side of his
entertainment of which you will know nothing."

Sir Timothy, choosing a moment's respite from the inflowing
stream of guests, came once more across to them.

"I am going to leave you, my honoured guests from The Sanctuary,"
he said, with a faint smile, "to yourselves for a short time.  In
the room to your left, supper is being served.  In front is the
dancing-gallery.  To the right, as you see, is the lounge leading
into the winter-garden.  The gymnasium is closed until midnight.
Any other part of the place please explore at your leisure, but I
am going to ask you one thing.  I want you to meet me in a room
which I will show you, at a quarter to twelve."

He led them down one of the corridors which opened from the hall.
Before the first door on the right a man-servant was standing as
though on sentry duty.  Sir Timothy tapped the panel of the door
with his forefinger.

"This is my sanctum," he announced.  "I allow no one in here
without special permission.  I find it useful to have a place to
which one can come and rest quite quietly sometimes.  Williams
here has no other duty except to guard the entrance.  Williams,
you will allow this gentleman and these two ladies to pass in at
a quarter to twelve."

The man looked at them searchingly.

"Certainly, sir," he said.  "No one else?"

"No one, under any pretext."

Sir Timothy hurried back to the hall, and the others followed him
in more leisurely fashion.  They were all three full of
curiosity.

"I never dreamed," Margaret declared, as she looked around her,
"that I should ever find myself inside this house.  It has always
seemed to me like one great bluebeard's chamber.  If ever my
father spoke of it at all, it was as of a place which he intended
to convert into a sort of miniature Hell."

Sir Timothy leaned back to speak to them as they passed.

"You will find a friend over there, Ledsam," he said.

Wilmore turned around and faced them.  The two men exchanged
somewhat surprised greetings.

"No idea that I was coming until this afternoon," Wilmore
explained.  "I got my card at five o'clock, with a note from Sir
Timothy's secretary.  I am racking my brains to imagine what it
can mean."

"We're all a little addled," Francis confessed.  "Come and join
our tour of exploration.  You know Lady Cynthia.  Let me present
you to Mrs. Hilditch."

The introduction was effected and they all, strolled on together.
Margaret and Lady Cynthia led the way into the winter-garden, a
palace of glass, tall palms, banks of exotics, flowering shrubs
of every description, and a fountain, with wonderfully carved
water nymphs, brought with its basin from Italy.  Hidden in the
foliage, a small orchestra was playing very softly.  The
atmosphere of the place was languorous and delicious.

"Leave us here," Margaret insisted, with a little exclamation of
content.  "Neither Cynthia nor I want to go any further.  Come
back and fetch us in time for our appointment."

The two men wandered off.  The place was indeed a marvel of
architecture, a country house, of which only the shell remained,
modernised and made wonderful by the genius of a great architect.
The first room which they entered when they left the winter-garden,
was as large as a small restaurant, panelled in cream colour, with
a marvellous ceiling.  There were tables of various sizes laid for
supper, rows of champagne bottles in ice buckets, and servants
eagerly waiting for orders.  Already a sprinkling of the guests
had found their way here.  The two men crossed the floor to the
cocktail bar in the far corner, behind which a familiar face
grinned at them.  It was Jimmy, the bartender from Soto's, who
stood there with a wonderful array of bottles on a walnut table.

"If it were not a perfectly fatuous question, I should ask what
you were doing here, Jimmy?" Francis remarked.

"I always come for Sir Timothy's big parties, sir," Jimmy
explained.  "Your first visit, isn't it, sir?"

"My first," Francis assented.

"And mine," his companion echoed.

"What can I have the pleasure of making for you, sir?" the man
enquired.

"A difficult question," Francis admitted.  "It is barely an hour
and a half since we finished diner.  On the other hand, we are
certainly going to have some supper some time or other."

Jimmy nodded understandingly.

"Leave it to me, sir," he begged.

He served them with a foaming white concoction in tall glasses.
A genuine lime bobbed up and down in the liquid.

"Sir Timothy has the limes sent over from his own estate in South
America," Jimmy announced.  "You will find some things in that
drink you don't often taste."

The two men sipped their beverage and pronounced it delightful.
Jimmy leaned a little across the table.

"A big thing on to-night, isn't there, sir?" he asked cautiously.

"Is there?" Francis replied.  "You mean--?"

Jimmy motioned towards the open window, close to which the river
was flowing by.

"You going down, sir?"

Francis shook his head dubiously.

"Where to?"

The bartender looked with narrowed eyes from one to the other of
the two men.  Then he suddenly froze up.  Wilmore leaned a little
further over the impromptu counter.

"Jimmy," he asked, "what goes on here besides dancing and boxing
and gambling?"

"I never heard of any gambling," Jimmy answered, shaking his
head.  "Sir Timothy doesn't care about cards being played here at
all."

"What is the principal entertainment, then?" Francis demanded.
"The boxing?"

The bartender shook his head.

"No one understands very much about this house, sir," he said,
"except that it offers the most wonderful entertainment in
Europe.  That is for the guests to find out, though.  We servants
have to attend to our duties.  Will you let me mix you another
drink, sir?"

"No, thanks," Francis answered.  "The last was too good to spoil.
But you haven't answered my question, Jimmy.  What did you mean
when you asked if we were going down?"

Jimmy's face had become wooden.

"I meant nothing, sir," he said.  "Sorry I spoke."

The two men turned away.  They recognised many acquaintances in
the supper-room, and in the long gallery beyond, where many
couples were dancing now to the music of a wonderful orchestra.
By slow stages they made their way back to the winter-garden,
where Lady Cynthia and Margaret were still lost in admiration
of their surroundings.  They all walked the whole length of
the place.  Beyond, down a flight of stone steps, was a short,
paved way to the river.  A large electric launch was moored at
the quay.  The grounds outside were dimly illuminated with
cunningly-hidden electric lights shining through purple-coloured
globes into the cloudy darkness.  In the background, enveloping
the whole of the house and reaching to the river on either side,
the great wall loomed up, unlit, menacing almost in its suggestions.
A couple of loiterers stood within a few yards of them, looking
at the launch.

"There she is, ready for her errand, whatever it may be," one
said to the other curiously.  "We couldn't play the stowaway, I
suppose, could we?"

"Dicky Bell did that once," the other answered.  "Sir Timothy has
only one way with intruders.  He was thrown into the river and
jolly nearly drowned."

The two men passed out of hearing.

"I wonder what part the launch plays in the night's
entertainment," Wilmore observed.

Francis shrugged his shoulders.

"I have given up wondering," he said.  "Margaret, do you hear
that music?"

She laughed.

"Are we really to dance?" she murmured.  "Do you want to make a
girl of me again?"

"Well, I shouldn't be a magician, should I?" he answered.

They passed into the ballroom and danced for some time.  The
music was seductive and perfect, without any of the blatant notes
of too many of the popular orchestras.  The floor seemed to sway
under their feet.

"This is a new joy come back into life!" Margaret exclaimed, as
they rested for a moment.

"The first of many," he assured her.

They stood in the archway between the winter-garden and the
dancing-gallery, from which they could command a view of the
passing crowds.  Francis scanned the faces of the men and women
with intense interest.  Many of them were known to him by sight,
others were strangers.  There was a judge, a Cabinet Minister,
various members of the aristocracy, a sprinkling from the foreign
legations, and although the stage was not largely represented,
there were one or two well-known actors.  The guests seemed to
belong to no universal social order, but to Francis, watching
them almost eagerly, they all seemed to have something of the
same expression, the same slight air of weariness, of restless
and unsatisfied desires.

"I can't believe that the place is real, or that these people we
see are not supers," Margaret whispered.

"I feel every moment that a clock will strike and that it will
all fade away."

"I'm afraid I'm too material for such imaginings," Francis
replied, "but there is a quaintly artificial air about it all.
We must go and look for Wilmore and Lady Cynthia."

They turned back into the enervating atmosphere of the winter-garden,
and came suddenly face to face with Sir Timothy, who had escorted a
little party of his guests to see the fountain, and was now
returning alone.

"You have been dancing, I am glad to see," the latter observed.
"I trust that you are amusing yourselves?"

"Excellently, thank you," Francis replied.

"And so far," Sir Timothy went on, with a faint smile, "you find
my entertainment normal?  You have no question yet which you
would like to ask?"

"Only one--what do you do with your launch up the river on
moonless nights, Sir Timothy?"

Sir Timothy's momentary silence was full of ominous significance.

"Mr. Ledsam," he said, after a brief pause, "I have given you
almost carte blanche to explore my domains here.  Concerning the
launch, however, I think that you had better ask no questions at
present."

"You are using it to-night?" Francis persisted.

"Will you come and see, my venturesome guest?"

"With great pleasure," was the prompt reply.

Sir Timothy glanced at his watch.

"That," he said, "is one of the matters of which we will speak at
a quarter to twelve.  Meanwhile, let me show you something.  It
may amuse you as it has done me."

The three moved back towards one of the arched openings which led
into the ballroom.

"Observe, if you please," their host continued, "the third couple
who pass us.  The girl is wearing green--the very little that she
does wear.  Watch the man, and see if he reminds you of any one."

Francis did as he was bidden.  The girl was a well-known member
of the chorus of one of the principal musical comedies, and she
seemed to be thoroughly enjoying both the dance and her partner.
The latter appeared to be of a somewhat ordinary type, sallow,
with rather puffy cheeks, and eyes almost unnaturally dark.  He
danced vigorously and he talked all the time.  Something about
him was vaguely familiar to Francis, but he failed to place him.

"Notwithstanding all my precautions," Sir Timothy continued,
"there, fondly believing himself to be unnoticed, is an emissary
of Scotland Yard.  Really, of all the obvious, the dry-as-dust,
hunt-your-criminal-by-rule-of-three kind of people I ever met,
the class of detective to which this man belongs can produce the
most blatant examples."

"What are you going to do about him?" Francis asked.

Sir Timothy shrugged his shoulders.

"I have not yet made up my mind," he said.  "I happen to know
that he has been laying his plans for weeks to get here,
frequenting Soto's and other restaurants, and scraping
acquaintances with some of my friends.  The Duke of Tadchester
brought him--won a few hundreds from him at baccarat, I suppose.
His grace will never again find these doors open to him."

Francis' attention had wandered.  He was gazing fixedly at the
man whom Sir Timothy had pointed out.

"You still do not fully recognise our friend," the latter
observed carelessly.  "He calls himself Manuel Loito, and he
professes to be a Cuban.  His real name I understood, when you
introduced us, to be Shopland."

"Great heavens, so it is!" Francis exclaimed.

"Let us leave him to his precarious pleasures," Sir Timothy
suggested.  "I am free for a few moments.  We will wander round
together."

They found Lady Cynthia and Wilmore, and looked in at the
supper-room, where people were waiting now for tables, a babel of
sound and gaiety.  The grounds and winter-gardens were crowded.
Their guide led the way to a large apartment on the other side of
the hall, from which the sound of music was proceeding.

"My theatre," he said.  "I wonder what is going on."

They passed inside.  There was a small stage with steps leading
down to the floor, easy-chairs and round tables everywhere, and
waiters serving refreshments.  A girl was dancing.  Sir Timothy
watched her approvingly.

"Nadia Ellistoff," he told them.  "She was in the last Russian
ballet, and she is waiting now for the rest of the company to
start again at Covent Garden.  You see, it is Metzger who plays
there.  They improvise.  Rather a wonderful performance, I
think."

They watched her breathlessly, a spirit in grey tulle, with great
black eyes now and then half closed.

"It is 'Wind before Dawn,'" Lady Cynthia whispered.  "I heard him
play it two days after he composed it, only there are variations
now.  She is the soul of the south wind."

The curtain went down amidst rapturous applause.  The dancer
had left the stage, floating away into some sort of
wonderfully-contrived nebulous background.  Within a few moments,
the principal comedian of the day was telling stories.  Sir Timothy
led them away.

"But how on earth do you get all these people?" Lady Cynthia
asked.

"It is arranged for me," Sir Timothy replied.  "I have an agent
who sees to it all.  Every man or woman who is asked to perform,
has a credit at Cartier's for a hundred guineas.  I pay no fees.
They select some little keepsake."

Margaret laughed softly.

"No wonder they call this place a sort of Arabian Nights!" she
declared.

"Well, there isn't much else for you to see," Sir Timothy said
thoughtfully.  "My gymnasium, which is one of the principal
features here, is closed just now for a special performance, of
which I will speak in a moment.  The concert hall I see they are
using for an overflow dance-room.  What you have seen, with the
grounds and the winter-garden, comprises almost everything."

They moved back through the hall with difficulty.  People were
now crowding in.  Lady Cynthia laughed softly.

"Why, it is like a gala night at the Opera, Sir Timothy!" she
exclaimed.  "How dare you pretend that this is Bohemia!"

"It has never been I who have described my entertainments," he
reminded her.  "They have been called everything--orgies,
debauches--everything you can think of.  I have never ventured
myself to describe them."

Their passage was difficult.  Every now and then Sir Timothy was
compelled to shake hands with some of his newly-arriving guests.
At last, however, they reached the little sitting-room.  Sir
Timothy turned back to Wilmore, who hesitated.

"You had better come in, too, Mr. Wilmore, if you will," he
invited.  "You were with Ledsam, the first day we met, and
something which I have to say now may interest you."

"If I am not intruding," Wilmore murmured.

They entered the room, still jealously guarded.  Sir Timothy
closed the door behind them.




CHAPTER XXXIV


The apartment was one belonging to the older portion of the
house, and had been, in fact, an annex to the great library.  The
walls were oak-panelled, and hung with a collection of old
prints.  There were some easy-chairs, a writing-table, and some
well-laden bookcases.  There were one or two bronze statues of
gladiators, a wonderful study of two wrestlers, no minor
ornaments.  Sir Timothy plunged at once into what he had to say.

"I promised you, Lady Cynthia, and you, Ledsam," he said, "to
divulge exactly the truth as regards these much-talked-of
entertainments here.  You, Margaret, under present circumstances,
are equally interested.  You, Wilmore, are Ledsam's friend, and
you happen to have an interest in this particular party.
Therefore, I am glad to have you all here together.  The
superficial part of my entertainment you have seen.  The part
which renders it necessary for me to keep closed doors, I shall
now explain.  I give prizes here of considerable value for boxing
contests which are conducted under rules of our own.  One is due
to take place in a very few minutes.  The contests vary in
character, but I may say that the chief officials of the National
Sporting Club are usually to be found here, only, of course, in
an unofficial capacity.  The difference between the contests
arranged by me, and others, is that my men are here to fight.
They use sometimes an illegal weight of glove and they sometimes
hurt one another.  If any two of the boxing fraternity have a
grudge against one another, and that often happens, they are
permitted here to fight it out, under the strictest control as
regards fairness, but practically without gloves at all.  You
heard of the accident, for instance, to Norris?  That happened in
my gymnasium.  He was knocked out by Burgin.  It was a wonderful
fight.

"However, I pass on.  There is another class of contest which
frequently takes place here.  Two boxers place themselves
unreservedly in my hands.  The details of the match are arranged
without their knowledge.  They come into the ring without knowing
whom they are going to fight.  Sometimes they never know, for my
men wear masks.  Then we have private matches.  There is one
to-night.  Lord Meadowson and I have a wager of a thousand
guineas.  He has brought to-night from the East End a boxer who,
according to the terms of our bet, has never before engaged in a
professional contest.  I have brought an amateur under the same
conditions.  The weight is within a few pounds the same, neither
has ever seen the other, only in this case the fight is with
regulation gloves and under Queensberry rules."

"Who is your amateur, Sir Timothy?" Wilmore asked harshly.

"Your brother, Mr. Wilmore," was the prompt reply.  "You shall
see the fight if I have your promise not to attempt in any way to
interfere."

Wilmore rose to his feet.

"Do you mean to tell me," he demanded, "that my brother has been
decoyed here, kept here against his will, to provide amusement
for your guests?"

"Mr. Wilmore, I beg that you will be reasonable," Sir Timothy
expostulated.  "I saw your brother box at his gymnasium in
Holborn.  My agent made him the offer of this fight.  One of my
conditions had to be that he came here to train and that whilst
he was here he held no communication whatever with the outside
world.  My trainer has ideas of his own and this he insists upon.
Your brother in the end acquiesced.  He was at first difficult to
deal with as regards this condition, and he did, in fact, I
believe, Mr. Ledsam, pay a visit to your office, with the object
of asking you to become an intermediary between him and his
relatives."

"He began a letter to me," Francis interposed, "and then
mysteriously disappeared."

"The mystery is easily explained," Sir Timothy continued.  "My
trainer, Roger Hagon, a Varsity blue, and the best heavyweight of
his year, occupies the chambers above yours.  He saw from the
window the arrival of Reginald Wilmore--which was according to
instructions, as they were to come down to Hatch End together
--went down the stairs to meet him, and, to cut a long story short,
fetched him out of your office, Ledsam, without allowing him to
finish his letter.  This absolute isolation seems a curious
condition, perhaps, but Hagon insists upon it, and I can assure
you that he knows his business.  The mystery, as you have termed
it, of his disappearance that morning, is that he went upstairs
with Hagon for several hours to undergo a medical examination,
instead of leaving the building forthwith."

"Queer thing I never thought of Hagon," Francis remarked.  "As a
matter of fact, I never see him in the Temple, and I thought that
he had left."

"May I ask," Wilmore intervened, "when my brother will be free to
return to his home?"

"To-night, directly the fight is over," Sir Timothy replied.
"Should he be successful, he will take with him a sum of money
sufficient to start him in any business he chooses to enter."

Wilmore frowned slightly.

"But surely," he protested, "that would make him a professional
pugilist?"

"Not at all," Sir Timothy replied.  "For one thing, the match is
a private one in a private house, and for another the money is a
gift.  There is no purse.  If your brother loses, he gets
nothing.  Will you see the fight, Mr. Wilmore?"

"Yes, I will see it," was the somewhat reluctant assent.

"You will give me your word not to interfere in any way?"

"I shall not interfere," Wilmore promised.  "If they are wearing
regulation gloves, and the weights are about equal, and the
conditions are what you say, it is the last thing I should wish
to do."

"Capital!" Sir Timothy exclaimed.  "Now to pass on.  There is one
other feature of my entertainments concerning which I have
something to say--a series of performances which takes place on
my launch at odd times.  There is one fixed for tonight.  I can
say little about it except that it is unusual.  I am going to ask
you, Lady Cynthia, and you, Ledsam, to witness it.  When you have
seen that, you know everything.  Then you and I, Ledsam, can call
one another's hands.  I shall have something else to say to you,
but that is outside the doings here."

"Are we to see the fight in the gymnasium?" Lady Cynthia
enquired.

Sir Timothy shook his head.

"I do not allow women there under any conditions," he said.  "You
and Margaret had better stay here whilst that takes place.  It
will probably be over in twenty minutes.  It will be time then
for us to find our way to the launch.  After that, if you have
any appetite, supper.  I will order some caviare sandwiches for
you," Sir Timothy went on, ringing the bell, "and some wine."

Lady Cynthia smiled.

"It is really a very wonderful party," she murmured.

Their host ushered the two men across the hall, now comparatively
deserted, for every one had settled down to his or her chosen
amusement--down a long passage, through a private door which he
unlocked with a Yale key, and into the gymnasium.  There were
less than fifty spectators seated around the ring, and Francis,
glancing at them hastily, fancied that he recognised nearly every
one of them.  There was Baker, a judge, a couple of actors, Lord
Meadowson, the most renowned of sporting peers, and a dozen who
followed in his footsteps; a little man who had once been amateur
champion in the bantam class, and who was now considered the
finest judge of boxing in the world; a theatrical manager, the
present amateur boxing champion, and a sprinkling of others.  Sir
Timothy and his companions took their chairs amidst a buzz of
welcome.  Almost immediately, the man who was in charge of the
proceedings, and whose name was Harrison, rose from his place.

"Gentlemen," he said, "this is a sporting contest, but one under
usual rules and usual conditions.  An amateur, who tips the
scales at twelve stone seven, who has never engaged in a boxing
contest in his life, is matched against a young man from a
different sphere of life, who intends to adopt the ring as his
profession, but who has never as yet fought in public.  Names,
gentlemen, as you know, are seldom mentioned here.  I will only
say that the first in the ring is the nominee of our friend and
host, Sir Timothy Brast; second comes the nominee of Lord
Meadowson."

Wilmore, notwithstanding his pre-knowledge, gave a little gasp.
The young man who stood now within a few yards of him, carelessly
swinging his gloves in his hand, was without a doubt his missing
brother.  He looked well and in the pink of condition; not only
well but entirely confident and at his ease.  His opponent, on
the other hand, a sturdier man, a few inches shorter, was nervous
and awkward, though none the less determined-looking.  Sir
Timothy rose and whispered in Harrison's ear.  The latter nodded.
In a very few moments the preliminaries were concluded, the fight
begun.




CHAPTER XXXV


Francis, glad of a moment or two's solitude in which to rearrange
his somewhat distorted sensations, found an empty space in the
stern of the launch and stood leaning over the rail.  His pulses
were still tingling with the indubitable excitement of the last
half-hour.  It was all there, even now, before his eyes like a
cinematograph picture--the duel between those two men, a duel of
knowledge, of strength, of science, of courage.  From beginning
to end, there had been no moment when Francis had felt that he
was looking on at what was in any way a degrading or immoral
spectacle.  Each man had fought in his way to win.  Young
Wilmore, graceful as a panther, with a keen, joyous desire of
youth for supremacy written in his face and in the dogged lines
of his mouth; the budding champion from the East End less
graceful, perhaps, but with even more strength and at least as
much determination, had certainly done his best to justify his
selection.  There were no points to be scored.  There had been no
undue feinting, no holding, few of the tricks of the professional
ring.  It was a fight to a finish, or until Harrison gave the
word.  And the better man had won.  But even that knock-out blow
which Reggie Wilmore had delivered after a wonderful feint, had
had little that was cruel in it.  There was something beautiful
almost in the strength and grace with which it had been
delivered--the breathless eagerness, the waiting, the end.

Francis felt a touch upon his arm and looked around.  A tall,
sad-faced looking woman, whom he had noticed with a vague sense
of familiarity in the dancing-room, was standing by his side.

"You have forgotten me, Mr. Ledsam," she said.

"For the moment," he admitted.

"I am Isabel Culbridge," she told him, watching his face.

"Lady Isabel?" Francis repeated incredulously.  "But surely--"

"Better not contradict me," she interrupted.  "Look again."

Francis looked again.

"I am very sorry," he said.  "It is some time, is it not, since
we met?"

She stood by his side, and for a few moments neither of them
spoke.  The little orchestra in the bows had commenced to play
softly, but there was none of the merriment amongst the handful
of men and women generally associated with a midnight river
picnic.  The moon was temporarily obscured, and it seemed as
though some artist's hand had so dealt with the few electric
lights that the men, with their pale faces and white shirt-fronts,
and the three or four women, most of them, as it happened, wearing
black, were like some ghostly figures in some sombre procession.
Only the music kept up the pretence that this was in any way an
ordinary excursion.  Amongst the human element there was an air
of tenseness which seemed rather to increase as they passed into
the shadowy reaches of the river.

"You have been ill, I am afraid?" Francis said tentatively.

"If you will," she answered, "but my illness is of the soul.  I
have become one of a type," she went on, "of which you will find
many examples here.  We started life thinking that it was clever
to despise the conventional and the known and to seek always for
the daring and the unknown.  New experiences were what we craved
for.  I married a wonderful husband.  I broke his heart and still
looked for new things.  I had a daughter of whom I was fond--she
ran away with my chauffeur and left me; a son whom I adored, and
he was killed in the war; a lover who told me that he worshipped
me, who spent every penny I had and made me the laughing-stock of
town.  I am still looking for new things."

"Sir Timothy's parties are generally supposed to provide them,"
Francis observed.

The woman shrugged her shoulders.

"So far they seem very much like anybody's else," she said.  "The
fight might have been amusing, but no women were allowed.  The
rest was very wonderful in its way, but that is all.  I am still
hoping for what we are to see downstairs."

They heard Sir Timothy's voice a few yards away, and turned to
look at him.  He had just come from below, and had paused
opposite a man who had been standing a little apart from the
others, one of the few who was wearing an overcoat, as though he
felt the cold.  In the background were the two servants who had
guarded the gangway.

"Mr. Manuel Loito," Sir Timothy said--"or shall I say Mr.
Shopland?--my invited guests are welcome.  I have only one method
of dealing with uninvited ones."

The two men suddenly stepped forward.  Shopland made no protest,
attempted no struggle.  They lifted him off his feet as though he
were a baby, and a moment later there was a splash in the water.
They threw a life-belt after him.

"Always humane, you see," Sir Timothy remarked, as he leaned over
the side.  "Ah!  I see that even in his overcoat our friend is
swimmer enough to reach the bank.  You find our methods harsh,
Ledsam?" he asked, turning a challenging gaze towards the latter.

Francis, who had been watching Shopland come to the surface,
shrugged his shoulders.  He delayed answering for a moment while
he watched the detective, disdaining the life-belt, swim to the
opposite shore.

"I suppose that under the circumstances," Francis said, "he was
prepared to take his risk."

"You should know best about that," Sir Timothy rejoined.  "I
wonder whether you would mind looking after Lady Cynthia?  I
shall be busy for a few moments."

Francis stepped across the deck towards where Lady Cynthia had
been sitting by her host's side.  They had passed into the mouth
of a tree-hung strip of the river.  The engine was suddenly shut
off.  A gong was sounded.  There was a murmur, almost a sob of
relief, as the little sprinkling of men and women rose hastily to
their feet and made their way towards the companion-way.
Downstairs, in the saloon, with its white satinwood panels and
rows of swing chairs, heavy curtains were drawn across the
portholes, all outside light was shut out from the place.  At the
further end, raised slightly from the floor, was a sanded circle.
Sir Timothy made his way to one of the pillars by its side and
turned around to face the little company of his guests.  His
voice, though it seemed scarcely raised above a whisper, was
extraordinarily clear and distinct.  Even Francis, who, with Lady
Cynthia, had found seats only just inside the door, could hear
every word he said.

"My friends," he began, "you have often before been my guests at
such small fights as we have been able to arrange in as
unorthodox a manner as possible between professional boxers.
There has been some novelty about them, but on the last occasion
I think it was generally observed that they had become a little
too professional, a little ultra-scientific.  There was something
which they lacked.  With that something I am hoping to provide
you to-night.  Thank you, Sir Edgar," he murmured, leaning down
towards his neighbour.

He held his cigarette in the flame of a match which the other had
kindled.  Francis, who was watching intently, was puzzled at the
expression with which for a moment, as he straightened himself,
Sir Timothy glanced down the room, seeking for Lady Cynthia's
eyes.  In a sense it was as though he were seeking for something
he needed--approbation, sympathy, understanding.

"Our hobby, as you know, has been reality," he continued.  "That
is what we have not always been able to achieve.  Tonight I offer
you reality.  There are two men here, one an East End coster, the
other an Italian until lately associated with an itinerant
vehicle of musical production.  These two men have not outlived
sensation as I fancy so many of us have.  They hate one another
to the death.  I forget their surnames, but Guiseppe has stolen
Jim's girl, is living with her at the present moment, and
proposes to keep her.  Jim has sworn to have the lives of both of
them.  Jim's career, in its way, is interesting to us.  He has
spent already six years in prison for manslaughter, and a year
for a brutal assault upon a constable.  Guiseppe was tried in his
native country for a particularly fiendish murder, and escaped,
owing, I believe, to some legal technicality.  That, however, has
nothing to do with the matter.  These men have sworn to fight to
the death, and the girl, I understand, is willing to return to
Jim if he should be successful, or to remain with Guiseppe if he
should show himself able to retain her.  The fight between these
men, my friends, has been transferred from Seven Dials for your
entertainment.  It will take place before you here and now."

There was a little shiver amongst the audience.  Francis, almost
to his horror, was unable to resist the feeling of queer
excitement which stole through his veins.  A few yards away, Lady
Isabel seemed to have become transformed.  She was leaning
forward in her chair, her eyes glowing, her lips parted,
rejuvenated, dehumanised.  Francis' immediate companion, however,
rather surprised him.  Her eyes were fixed intently upon Sir
Timothy's.  She seemed to have been weighing every word he had
spoken.  There was none of that hungry pleasure in her face
which shone from the other woman's and was reflected in the faces
of many of the others.  She seemed to be bracing herself for a
shock.  Sir Timothy looked over his shoulder towards the door
which opened upon the sanded space.

"You can bring your men along," he directed.

One of the attendants promptly made his appearance.  He was
holding tightly by the arm a man of apparently thirty years of
age, shabbily dressed, barefooted, without collar or necktie,
with a mass of black hair which looked as though it had escaped
the care of any barber for many weeks.  His complexion was
sallow; he had high cheekbones and a receding chin, which gave
him rather the appearance of a fox.  He shrank a little from the
lights as though they hurt his eyes, and all the time he looked
furtively back to the door, through which in a moment or two his
rival was presently escorted.  The latter was a young man of
stockier build, ill-conditioned, and with the brutal face of the
lowest of his class.  Two of his front teeth were missing, and
there was a livid mark on the side of his cheek.  He looked
neither to the right nor to the left.  His eyes were fixed upon
the other man, and they looked death.

"The gentleman who first appeared," Sir Timothy observed,
stepping up into the sanded space but still half facing the
audience, "is Guiseppe, the Lothario of this little act.  The
other is Jim, the wronged husband.  You know their story.  Now,
Jim," he added, turning towards the Englishman, "I put in your
trousers pocket these notes, two hundred pounds, you will
perceive.  I place in the trousers pocket of Guiseppe here notes
to the same amount.  I understand you have a little quarrel to
fight out.  The one who wins will naturally help himself to the
other's money, together with that other little reward which I
imagine was the first cause of your quarrel.  Now ... let them
go."

Sir Timothy resumed his seat and leaned back in leisurely
fashion.  The two attendants solemnly released their captives.
There was a moment's intense silence.  The two men seemed fencing
for position.  There was something stealthy and horrible about
their movements as they crept around one another.  Francis
realised what it was almost as the little sobbing breath from
those of the audience who still retained any emotion, showed him
that they, too, foresaw what was going to happen.  Both men had
drawn knives from their belts.  It was murder which had been let
loose.

Francis found himself almost immediately upon his feet.  His
whole being seemed crying out for interference.  Lady Cynthia's
death-white face and pleading eyes seemed like the echo of his
own passionate aversion to what was taking place.  Then he met
Sir Timothy's gaze across the room and he remembered his promise.
Under no conditions was he to protest or interfere.  He set his
teeth and resumed his seat.  The fight went on.  There were
little sobs and tremors of excitement, strange banks of silence.
Both men seemed out of condition.  The sound of their hoarse
breathing was easily heard against the curtain of spellbound
silence.  For a time their knives stabbed the empty air, but from
the first the end seemed certain.  The Englishman attacked
wildly.  His adversary waited his time, content with avoiding the
murderous blows struck at him, striving all the time to steal
underneath the other's guard.  And then, almost without warning,
it was all over.  Jim was on his back in a crumpled heap.  There
was a horrid stain upon his coat.  The other man was kneeling by
his side, hate, glaring out of his eyes, guiding all the time the
rising and falling of his knife.  There was one more shriek--then
silence only the sound of the victor's breathing as he rose
slowly from his ghastly task.  Sir Timothy rose to his feet and
waved his hand.  The curtain went down.

"On deck, if you please, ladies and gentlemen," he said calmly.

No one stirred.  A woman began to sob.  A fat, unhealthy-looking
man in front of Francis reeled over in a dead faint.  Two other
of the guests near had risen from their seats and were shouting
aimlessly like lunatics.  Even Francis was conscious of that
temporary imprisonment of the body due to his lacerated nerves.
Only the clinging of Lady Cynthia to his arm kept him from
rushing from the spot.

"You are faint?" he whispered hoarsely.

"Upstairs--air," she faltered.

They rose to their feet.  The sound of Sir Timothy's voice
reached them as they ascended the stairs.

"On deck, every one, if you please," he insisted.  "Refreshments
are being served there.  There are inquisitive people who watch
my launch, and it is inadvisable to remain here long."

People hurried out then as though their one desire was to escape
from the scene of the tragedy.  Lady Cynthia, still clinging to
Francis' arm, led him to the furthermost corner of the launch.
There were real tears in her eyes, her breath was coming in
little sobs.

"Oh, it was horrible!" she cried.  "Horrible!  Mr. Ledsam--I
can't help it--I never want to speak to Sir Timothy again!"

One final horror arrested for a moment the sound of voices.
There was a dull splash in the river.  Something had been thrown
overboard.  The orchestra began to play dance music.
Conversation suddenly burst out.  Every one was hysterical.  A
Peer of the Realm, red-eyed and shaking like an aspen leaf, was
drinking champagne out of the bottle.  Every one seemed to be
trying to outvie the other in loud conversation, in outrageous
mirth.  Lady Isabel, with a glass of champagne in her hand,
leaned back towards Francis.

"Well," she asked, "how are you feeling, Mr. Ledsam?"

"As though I had spent half-an-hour in Hell," he answered.

She screamed with laughter.

"Hear this man," she called out, "who will send any poor
ragamuffin to the gallows if his fee is large enough!  Of
course," she added, turning back to him, "I ought to remember you
are a normal person  and to-night's entertainment was not for
normal persons.  For myself I am grateful to Sir Timothy.  For a
few moments of this aching aftermath of life, I forgot."

Suddenly all the lights around the launch flamed out, the music
stopped.  Sir Timothy came up on deck.  On either side of him was
a man in ordinary dinner clothes.  The babel of voices ceased.
Everyone was oppressed by some vague likeness.  A breathless
silence ensued.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Sir Timothy said, and once more the smile
upon his lips assumed its most mocking curve, "let me introduce
you to the two artists who have given us to-night such a
realistic performance, Signor Guiseppe Elito and Signor Carlos
Marlini.  I had the good fortune," he went on, "to witness this
very marvellous performance in a small music-hall at Palermo, and
I was able to induce the two actors to pay us a visit over here.
Steward, these gentlemen will take a glass of champagne."

The two Sicilians raised their glasses and bowed expectantly to
the little company.  They received, however, a much greater
tribute to their performance than the applause which they had
been expecting.  There reigned everywhere a deadly, stupefied
silence.  Only a half-stifled sob broke from Lady Cynthia's lips
as she leaned over the rail, her face buried in her hands, her
whole frame shaking.




CHAPTER XXXVI


Francis and Margaret sat in the rose garden on the following
morning.  Their conversation was a little disjointed, as the
conversation of lovers in a secluded and beautiful spot should
be, but they came back often to the subject of Sir Timothy.

"If I have misunderstood your father," Francis, declared, "and I
admit that I have, it has been to some extent his own fault.  To
me he was always the deliberate scoffer against any code of
morals, a rebel against the law even if not a criminal in actual
deeds.  I honestly believed that The Walled House was the scene
of disreputable orgies, that your father was behind Fairfax in
that cold-blooded murder, and that he was responsible in some
sinister way for the disappearance of Reggie Wilmore.  Most of
these things seem to have been shams, like the fight last night."

She moved uneasily in her place.

"I am glad I did not see that," she said, with a shiver.

"I think," he went on, "that the reason why your father insisted
upon Lady Cynthia's and my presence there was that he meant it as
a sort of allegory.  Half the vices in life he claims are
unreal."

Margaret passed her arm through his and leaned a little towards
him.

"If you knew just one thing I have never told you," she confided,
"I think that you would feel sorry for him.  I do, more and more
every day, because in a way that one thing is my fault."

Notwithstanding the warm sunshine, she suddenly shivered.
Francis took her hands in his.  They were cold and lifeless.

"I know that one thing, dear," he told her quietly.

She looked at him stonily.  There was a questioning fear in her
eyes.

"You know--"

"I know that your fattier killed Oliver Hilditch."

She suddenly broke out into a stream of words.  There was passion
in her tone and in her eyes.  She was almost the accuser.

"My father was right, then!" she exclaimed.  "He told me this
morning that he believed that it was to you or to your friend at
Scotland Yard that Walter had told his story.  But you don't know
you don't know how terrible the temptation was how--you see I say
it quite coolly--how Oliver Hilditch deserved to die.  He was
trusted by my father in South America and he deceived him, he
forged the letters which induced me to marry him.  It was part of
his scheme of revenge.  This was the first time we had any of us
met since.  I told my father the truth that afternoon.  He knew
for the first time how my marriage came about.  My husband had
prayed me to keep silent.  I refused.  Then he became like a
devil.  We were there, we three, that night after you left, and
Francis, as I live, if my father had not killed him, I should
have!"

"There was a time when I believed that you had," he reminded her.
"I didn't behave like a pedagogic upholder of the letter of the
law then, did I?"

She drew closer to him.

"You were wonderful," she whispered.

"Dearest, your father has nothing to fear from me," he assured
her tenderly.  "On the contrary, I think that I can show him the
way to safety."

She rose impulsively to her feet.

"He will be here directly," she said.  "He promised to come
across at half-past twelve.  Let us go and meet him.  But,
Francis--"

For a single moment she crept into his arms.  Their lips met, her
eyes shone into his.  He held her away from him a moment later.
The change was amazing.  She was no longer a tired woman.  She
had become a girl again.  Her eyes were soft with happiness, the
little lines had gone from about her mouth, she walked with all
the spring of youth and happiness.

"It is marvellous," she whispered.  "I never dreamed that I
should ever be happy again."

They crossed the rustic bridge which led on to the lawn.  Lady
Cynthia came out of the house to meet them.  She showed no signs
of fatigue, but her eyes and her tone were full of anxiety.

"Margaret," she cried, "do you know that the hall is filled with
your father's luggage, and that the car is ordered to take him to
Southampton directly after lunch?"

Margaret and Francis exchanged glances.

"Sir Timothy may change his mind," the latter observed.  "I have
news for him directly he arrives."

On the other side of the wall they heard the whinnying of the old
mare, the sound of galloping feet from all directions.

"Here he comes!" Lady Cynthia exclaimed.  "I shall go and meet
him."

Francis laid his hand upon her arm.

"Let me have a word with him first," he begged.

She hesitated.

"You are not going to say anything--that will make him want to go
away?"

"I am going to tell him something which I think will keep him at
home."

Sir Timothy came through the postern-gate, a moment or two later.
He waved his hat and crossed the lawn in their direction.
Francis went alone to meet him and, as he drew near, was
conscious of a little shock.  His host, although he held himself
bravely, seemed to have aged in the night.

"I want one word with you, sir, in your study, please," Francis
said.

Sir Timothy shrugged his shoulders and led the way.  He turned to
wave his hand once more to Margaret and Lady Cynthia, however,
and he looked with approval at the luncheon-table which a couple
of servants were laying under the cedar tree.

"Wonderful thing, these alfresco meals," he declared.  "I hope
Hedges won't forget the maraschino with the melons.  Come into my
den, Ledsam."

He led the way in courtly fashion.  He was the ideal host leading
a valued guest to his sanctum for a few moments' pleasant
conversation.  But when they arrived in the little beamed room
and the door was closed, his manner changed.  He looked
searchingly, almost challengingly at Francis.

"You have news for me?" he asked.

"Yes!" Francis answered.

Sir Timothy shrugged his shoulders.  He threw himself a little
wearily into an easy-chair.  His hands strayed out towards a
cigarette box.  He selected one and lit it.

"I expected your friend, Mr. Shopland," he murmured.  "I hope he
is none the worse for his ducking."

"Shopland is a fool," Francis replied.  "He has nothing to do
with this affair, anyway.  I have something to give you, Sir
Timothy."

He took the two papers from his pocket and handed them over.

"I bought these from John Walter the day before yesterday," he
continued.  "I gave him two hundred pounds for them.  The money
was just in time.  He caught a steamer for Australia late in the
afternoon.  I had this wireless from him this morning."

Sir Timothy studied the two documents, read the wireless.  There
was little change in his face.  Only for a single moment his lips
quivered.

"What does this mean?" he asked, rising to his feet with the
documents in his hand.

"It means that those papers are yours to do what you like with.
I drafted the second one so that you should be absolutely secure
against any further attempt at blackmail.  As a matter of fact,
though, Walter is on his last legs.  I doubt whether he will live
to land in Australia."

"You know that I killed Oliver Hilditch?" Sir Timothy said, his
eyes fixed upon the other's.

"I know that you killed Oliver Hilditch," Francis repeated.  "If
I had been Margaret's father, I think that I should have done the
same."

Sir Timothy seemed suddenly very much younger.  The droop of his
lips was no longer pathetic.  There was a little humourous twitch
there.

"You, the great upholder of the law?" he murmured.

"I have heard the story of Oliver Hilditch's life," Francis
replied.  "I was partially responsible for saving him from the
gallows.  I repeat what I have said.  And if you will--"

He held out his hand.  Sir Timothy hesitated for one moment.
Instead of taking it, he laid his hand upon Francis' shoulder.

"Ledsam," he said, "we have thought wrong things of one another.
I thought you a prig, moral to your finger-tips with the morality
of the law and the small places.  Perhaps I was tempted for that
reason to give you a wrong impression of myself.  But you must
understand this.  Though I have had my standard and lived up to
it all my life, I am something of a black sheep.  A man stole my
wife.  I did not trouble the Law Courts.  I killed him."

"I have the blood of generations of lawyers in my veins," Francis
declared, "but I have read many a divorce case in which I think
it would have been better and finer if the two men had met as you
and that man met."

"I was born with the love of fighting in my bones," Sir Timothy
went on.  "In my younger days, I fought in every small war in the
southern hemisphere.  I fought, as you know, in our own war.  I
have loved to see men fight honestly and fairly."

"It is a man's hobby," Francis pronounced.

"I encouraged you deliberately to think," Sir Timothy went on,
"what half the world thinks that--my parties at The Walled House
were mysterious orgies of vice.  They have, as a matter of fact,
never been anything of the sort.  The tragedies which are
supposed to have taken place on my launch have been just as much
mock tragedies as last night's, only I have not previously chosen
to take the audiences into my confidence.  The greatest pugilists
in the world have fought in my gymnasium, often, if you will,
under illegal conditions, but there has never been a fight that
was not fair."

"I believe that," Francis said.

"And there is another matter for which I take some blame," Sir
Timothy went on, "the matter of Fairfax and Victor Bidlake.  They
were neither of them young men for whose loss the world is any
the worse.  Fairfax to some extent imposed upon me.  He was
brought to The Walled House by a friend who should have known
better.  He sought my confidence.  The story he told was exactly
that of the mock drama upon the launch.  Bidlake had taken his
wife.  He had no wish to appeal to the Courts.  He wished to
fight, a point of view with which I entirely sympathised.  I
arranged a fight between the two.  Bidlake funked it and never
turned up.  My advice to Fairfax was, whenever he met Bidlake, to
give him the soundest thrashing he could.  That night at Soto's I
caught sight of Fairfax some time before dinner.  He was talking
to the woman who had been his wife, and he had evidently been
drinking.  He drew me on one side.  'To-night,' he told me, 'I am
going to settle accounts with Bidlake.'  'Where?' I asked.
'Here,' he answered.  He went out to the theatre, I upstairs to
dine.  That was the extent of the knowledge I possessed which
enabled me to predict some unwonted happening that night.
Fairfax was a bedrugged and bedrunken decadent who had not the
courage afterwards to face what he had done.  That is all."

The hand slipped from Francis' shoulder.  Francis, with a smile,
held out his own.  They stood there for a moment with clasped
hands--a queer, detached moment, as it seemed to Francis, in a
life which during the last few months had been full of vivid
sensations.  From outside came the lazy sounds of the drowsy
summer morning--the distant humming of a mowing machine, the
drone of a reaper in the field beyond, the twittering of birds in
the trees, even the soft lapping of the stream against the stone
steps.  The man whose hand he was holding seemed to Francis to
have become somehow transformed.  It was as though he had dropped
a mask and were showing a more human, a more kindly self.
Francis wondered no longer at the halting gallop of the horses in
the field.

"You'll be good to Margaret?" Sir Timothy begged.  "She's had a
wretched time."

Francis smiled confidently.

"I'm going to make up for it, sir," he promised.  "And this South
American trip," he continued, as they turned towards the French
windows, "you'll call that off?"

Sir Timothy hesitated.

"I am not quite sure."

When they reached the garden, Lady Cynthia was alone.  She
scarcely glanced at Francis.  Her eyes were anxiously fixed upon
his companion.

"Margaret has gone in to make the cocktails herself," she
explained.  "We have both sworn off absinthe for the rest of our
lives, and we know Hedges can't be trusted to make one without."

"I'll go and help her," Francis declared.

Lady Cynthia passed her arm through Sir Timothy's.

"I want to know about South America," she begged.  "The sight of
those trunks worries me."

Sir Timothy's casual reply was obviously a subterfuge.  They
crossed the lawn and the rustic bridge, almost in silence,
passing underneath the pergola of roses to the sheltered garden
at the further end.  Then Lady Cynthia paused.

"You are not going to South America," she pleaded, "alone?"

Sir Timothy took her hands.

"My dear," he said, "listen, please, to my confession.  I am a
fraud.  I am not a purveyor of new sensations for a decadent
troop of weary, fashionable people.  I am a fraud sometimes even
to myself.  I have had good luck in material things. I have had
bad luck in the precious, the sentimental side of life.  It has
made something of an artificial character of me, on the surface
at any rate.  I am really a simple, elderly man who loves fresh
air, clean, honest things, games, and a healthy life.  I have no
ambitions except those connected with sport.  I don't even want
to climb to the topmost niches in the world of finance.  I think
you have looked at me through the wrong-coloured spectacles.  You
have had a whimsical fancy for a character which does not exist."

"What I have seen," Lady Cynthia answered, "I have seen through
no spectacles at all--with my own eyes.  But what I have seen,
even, does not count.  There is something else."

"I am within a few weeks of my fiftieth birthday," Sir Timothy
reminded her, "and you, I believe, are twenty-nine."

"My dear man," Lady Cynthia assured him fervently, "you are the
only person in the world who can keep me from feeling forty-nine."

"And your people--"

"Heavens!  My people, for the first time in their lives, will
count me a brilliant success," Lady Cynthia declared.  "You'll
probably have to lend dad money, and I shall be looked upon as
the fairy child who has restored the family fortunes."

Sir Timothy leaned a little towards her.

"Last of all," he said, and this time his voice was not quite so
steady, "are you really sure that you care for me, dear, because
I have loved you so long, and I have wanted love so badly, and it
is so hard to believe--"

It was the moment, it seemed to her, for which she had prayed.
She was in his arms, tired no longer, with all the splendid fire
of life in her love-lit eyes and throbbing pulses.  Around them
the bees were humming, and a soft summer breeze shook the roses
and brought little wafts of perfume from the carnation bed.

"There is nothing in life," Lady Cynthia murmured brokenly, "so
wonderful as this."

Francis and Margaret came out from the house, the former carrying
a silver tray.  They had spent a considerable time over their
task, but Lady Cynthia and Sir Timothy were still absent.  Hedges
followed them, a little worried.

"Shall I ring the gong, madam?" he asked Margaret.  "Cook has
taken such pains with her omelette."

"I think you had better, Hedges," Margaret assented.

The gong rang out--and rang again.  Presently Lady Cynthia and
Sir Timothy appeared upon the bridge and crossed the lawn.  They
were walking a little apart.  Lady Cynthia was looking down at
some roses which she had gathered.  Sir Timothy's unconcern
seemed a trifle overdone.  Margaret laughed very softly.

"A stepmother, Francis!" she whispered.  "Just fancy Cynthia as a
stepmother!"







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