Whereupon the observant Seton saw a quick change take place in the girl’s expression.  She had the same clear coloring as her cousin, and now this freshness deserted her cheeks, and her pretty face became quite pale.  She was staring at the brown packet.  “Where did you get them?” she asked quietly.

A smile faded from Gray’s lips.  Those five words had translated him in spirit to that green-draped room in which Sir Lucien Pyne was lying dead.  He glanced at Seton in the appealing way which sometimes made him appear so boyish.

“Er—­from Pyne,” he replied.  “I must tell you, Margaret—­”

“Sir Lucien Pyne?” she interrupted.

“Yes.”

“Not from Rita Irvin?”

Quentin Gray started upright in his chair.

“No!  But why do you mention her?”

Margaret bit her lip in sudden perplexity.

“Oh, I don’t know.”  She glanced apologetically toward Seton.  He rose immediately.

“My dear Miss Halley,” he said, “I perceive, indeed I had perceived all along, that you have something of a private nature to communicate to your cousin.”

But Gray stood up, and: 

“Seton! . . .  Margaret!” he said, looking from one to the other.  “I mean to say, Margaret, if you’ve anything to tell me about Rita . . .  Have you?  Have you?”

He fixed his gaze eagerly upon her.

“I have—­yes.”

Seton prepared to take his leave, but Gray impetuously thrust him back, immediately turning again to his cousin.

“Perhaps you haven’t heard, Margaret,” he began.  “I have heard what has happened tonight—­to Sir Lucien.”

Both men stared at her silently for a moment.

“Seton has been with me all the time,” said Gray.  “If he will consent to stay, with your permission, Margaret, I should like him to do so.”

“Why, certainly,” agreed the girl.  “In fact, I shall be glad of his advice.”

Seton inclined his head, and without another word resumed his seat.  Gray was too excited to sit down again.  He stood on the tiger-skin rug before the fender, watching his cousin and smoking furiously.

“Firstly, then,” continued Margaret, “please throw that cigarette in the fire, Quentin.”

Gray removed the cigarette from between his lips, and stared at it dazedly.  He looked at the girl, and the clear grey eyes were watching him with an inscrutable expression.

“Right-o!” he said awkwardly, and tossed the cigarette in the fire.  “You used to smoke like a furnace, Margaret.  Is this some new ’cult’?”

“I still smoke a great deal more than is good for me,” she confessed, “but I don’t smoke opium.”

The effect of these words upon the two men who listened was curious.  Gray turned an angry glance upon the brown packet lying on the table, and “Faugh!” he exclaimed, and drawing a handkerchief from his sleeve began disgustedly to wipe his lips.  Seton stared hard at the speaker, tossed his cheroot into the fire, and taking up the packet withdrew a cigarette and sniffed at it critically.  Margaret watched him.