“Quite so,” he agreed, and under his deft cross-examination the whole story was unfolded.  The little dinner at which Sylvia made her appearance and at which Walter Hine was carefully primed with drink; the little round game of cards which Garratt Skinner was so reluctant to allow in his house on a Sunday evening, and from which, being an early riser, he retired to bed, leaving Hine in the hands of Captain Barstow and Archie Parminter; the quiet secluded house in the country; the new gardener who appeared for one day and shot with so surprising an accuracy, when Barstow backed him against Walter Hine, that Hine lost a thousand pounds; the incidents were related to Mr. Jarvice in their proper succession, and he interpreted them by his own experience.  Captain Barstow, who was always to the fore, counted for nothing in the story as Jarvice understood it.  He was the mere creature, the servant.  Garratt Skinner, who was always in the background, prepared the swindle and pocketed the profits.

“You are staying at the quiet house in Dorsetshire now, I suppose.  Just you and Garratt Skinner and the pretty daughter, with occasional visits from Barstow?”

“Yes,” answered Hine.  “Garratt Skinner does not care to see much company.”

Once more the smile of amusement played upon Mr. Jarvice’s face.

“No, I suppose not,” he said, quietly.  There were certain definite reasons of which he was aware, to account for Garratt Skinner’s reluctance to appear in a general company.  He turned back from the window and returned to his table.  He had taken his part.  There was no longer either unsteadiness or anger in his voice.

“I quite understand your reluctance to leave your new friends,” he said, with the utmost friendliness.  “I recognize that the tour abroad on which I had rather set my heart must be abandoned.  But I have no regrets.  For I think it possible that the very object which I had in mind when proposing that tour may be quite as easily effected in the charming country house of Garratt Skinner.”

He spoke in a quiet matter-of-fact voice, looking benevolently at his visitor.  If the words were capable of another and a more sinister meaning than they appeared to convey, Walter Hine did not suspect it.  He took them in their obvious sense.

“Yes, I shall gain as much culture in Garratt Skinner’s house as I should by seeing picture-galleries abroad,” he said eagerly, and then Mr. Jarvice smiled.

“I think that very likely,” he said.  “Meanwhile, as to Barstow and his thousand pounds.  I must think the matter over.  Barstow will not press you for a day or two.  Just leave me your address—­the address in Dorsetshire.”

He dipped a pen in the ink and handed it to Hine.  Hine took it and drew a sheet of paper toward him.  But he did not set the pen to the paper.  He looked suddenly up at Jarvice, who stood over against him at the other side of the table.