“It sounds brutal enough,” Lovell admitted.  “What became of the child?”

“One of her father’s relations turned up after all and took care of her,” Aynesworth said.  “Wingrave knew nothing about that, though.  Then on the voyage across the Atlantic, there was a silly, pretty little woman on board who was piqued by Wingrave’s indifference and tried to flirt with him.  In a few days she was his slave.  She was going home to her husband, and you would have thought that any decent fellow would have told her that she was a little fool, and let her go.  But not Wingrave!  She was landing with him at New York, but someone amongst the passengers, who guessed what was up, sent a Marconigram to her husband, and he met us at the landing stage.”

“Nothing came of that, then?”

“No, but it wasn’t Wingrave’s fault.  Then he began dealing with some shares in a mine—­the mine, you know.  They were supposed to be worthless, and one boy, who was a little young to the game, sold him too many.  Wingrave was bleeding these brokers for hundreds of thousands of dollars, and the boy came and asked to be let off by paying his whole fortune to escape being hammered.  Wingrave refused.  I believe if the boy hadn’t just been married, he’d have blown his brains out!”

Lovell laughed.

“I don’t envy you your job,” he remarked.  “Is there nothing to set down on the credit side of the ledger?”

“Not much,” Aynesworth answered.  “He is a fine sportsman, and he saved my life in the Rockies, which makes me feel a bit uncomfortable sometimes.  He has a sense of justice, for he heard of this mine from a man in prison, and he has kept accounts showing the fellow’s share down to the last halfpenny.  But I have never yet known him to speak a kindly word or do a kindly deed.  He seems intent upon carrying out to the letter his own principles—­to make as many people as possible suffer for his own broken life.  Now he is back here, a millionaire, with immense power for good or for evil, I am almost afraid of him.  I wouldn’t be Lady Ruth or her husband for something.”

Lovell smoked thoughtfully for a time.

“Wingrave was always a little odd,” he remarked, “but I never thought that he was a bad chap.”

“Go and see him now!” Aynesworth said.  “Tell me if you think he wears a mask or whether he is indeed what he seems.”

The hall porter entered the room and addressed Aynesworth.

“Gentleman called for you, sir,” he announced.

“It is Wingrave,” Aynesworth declared.  “Come and speak to him!”

They descended the stairs together.  Outside, Wingrave was leaning back in the corner of an electric brougham, reading the paper.  Aynesworth put his head in at the window.

“You remember Lovell, Mr. Wingrave?” he said.  “We were just talking when your message came up.  I’ve brought him down to shake hands with you.”

Wingrave folded his paper down at the precise place where he had been reading and extended a very limp hand.  His manner betrayed not the slightest interest or pleasure.