CHAPTER XXIV

DEAR SIR:Mr. John Phillips of this firm, who is coroner for thedistrict, has desired me to answer the enquiry contained in yourofficial letter of the 13th. The number of inquests held upon bodiesrecovered from the Thames in the neighbourhood to which you allude,during the present year has been seven. Four of these have beenidentified. Concerning the remaining three nothing has ever been heard.Such particulars as are on our file will be available to any accreditedrepresentative 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!”

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 tête-à-tête 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.”

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 acertain matter concerning which information has come into my possession,which I should like to discuss with you. Will you call and see me assoon 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.”

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.

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