“Warkworth?” Jacob Delafield stood still a moment, and Sir Wilfrid caught a sudden contraction of the brow.  “That, of course, was just a bit of Indian gossip.”

“I don’t think so,” said Sir Wilfrid, dryly.  “My informants were two frontier officers—­I came from Egypt with them—­who had recently been at Peshawar; good fellows both of them, not at all given to take young ladies’ names in vain.”

Jacob made no reply.  They had let themselves into the Duke Street house and were groping their way up the dim staircase to Sir Wilfrid’s rooms.

There all was light and comfort.  Sir Wilfrid’s valet, much the same age as himself, hovered round his master, brought him his smoking-coat, offered Delafield cigars, and provided Sir Wilfrid, strange to say, with a large cup of tea.

“I follow Mr. Gladstone,” said Sir Wilfrid, with a sigh of luxury, as he sank into an easy-chair and extended a very neatly made pair of legs and feet to the blaze.  “He seems to have slept the sleep of the just—­on a cup of tea at midnight—­through the rise and fall of cabinets.  So I’m trying the receipt.”

“Does that mean that you are hankering after politics?”

“Heavens!  When you come to doddering, Jacob, it’s better to dodder in the paths you know.  I salute Mr. G.’s physique, that’s all.  Well, now, Jacob, do you know anything about this Warkworth?”

“Warkworth?” Delafield withdrew his cigar, and seemed to choose his words a little.  “Well, I know what all the world knows.”

“Hm—­you seemed very sure just now that he wasn’t going to marry Miss Moffatt.”

“Sure?  I’m not sure of anything,” said the young man, slowly.

“Well, what I should like to know,” said Sir Wilfrid, cradling his teacup in both hands, “is, what particular interest has Mademoiselle Julie in that young soldier?”

Delafield looked into the fire.

“Has she any?”

“She seems to be moving heaven and earth to get him what he wants.  By-the-way, what does he want?”

“He wants the special mission to Mokembe, as I understand,” said Delafield, after a moment.  “But several other people want it too.”

“Indeed!” Sir Wilfrid nodded reflectively.  “So there is to be one!  Well, it’s about time.  The travellers of the other European firms have been going it lately in that quarter.  Jacob, your mademoiselle also is a bit of an intriguer!”

Delafield made a restless movement.  “Why do you say that?”

“Well, to say the least of it, frankness is not one of her characteristics.  I tried to question her about this man.  I had seen them together in the Park, talking as intimates.  So, when our conversation had reached a friendly stage, I threw out a feeler or two, just to satisfy myself about her.  But—­”

He pulled his fair mustaches and smiled.

“Well?” said the young man, with a kind of reluctant interrogation.