“I—­I think—­” Connie hesitated; she was never any good at concealment.  “I think she went towards Starden.”

“Then when we’ve got rid of this fellow I’ll get out the car and go and find her.  Show him in, Con.”

Mr. Philip Slotman, looking shaken, bearing on his face several patches of court plaster, which were visible, and in his breast a black fury that was invisible, came in.

“Mr. Slotman?”

“Yes, you are Mr. Everard?”

Johnny nodded pleasantly.  “If it is business, Sunday evening is hardly the time—­”

“It is personal and private business, Mr. Everard.”

The man, Johnny decided, was not, as Con had supposed, drunk, but he had evidently been in the wars.  It was surprising the number of places in which he seemed to be wounded.  He walked stiffly, he carried his right arm stiffly.  His face was decorated with plaster, and his obviously very good clothes were torn; for what Hugh Alston had commenced so ably last night, Rundle had completed this morning.

“It is private and personal, my business with you.  I understand you are engaged to be married to a lady in whom I have felt some interest.”

Johnny looked up and stiffened.

“Well?”

“I allude to Miss Joan Meredyth, for some time engaged by me as a typist in my city office.”

“Well?”

“Miss Meredyth did not always hold the position in society that she does now.”

“I am aware of that.”

“There may be a great deal that you are not aware of,” said Slotman; and Slotman was quivering with rage at the indignities he had been subjected to.

“You will forgive me,” said Johnny, “but I do not propose to discuss my future wife with a stranger—­with anyone at all, in fact, and certainly not with a stranger.”

“And you will forgive me,” said Slotman, “but when you have heard what I have to say, I very much doubt if you will regard Miss Joan Meredyth in the light of your future wife.”

Johnny moved towards the door and opened it.

“I think it will be better if you go,” he said quietly.

“If you do, you will be sorry when it is too late.  I come here as a friend—­”

“You will go!”

“In June, nineteen hundred and eighteen, when Joan Meredyth was a girl at school—­”

“I have told you that I will not listen.”

“She gave it out that she was leaving England for Australia.  She never went in reality, she—­

“Once more I order you to go before I—­”

“In reality she was living with Mr. Hugh Alston as his wife—­”

Philip Slotman laughed nervously.

“Liar!”

“I had to tell you in spite of yourself, and it is true.  It is true.  Ask Lady Linden of Cornbridge; she knows.  She believes to this day that Joan Meredyth and Alston were married, and they never were.  I have searched the registers at Marlbury and—­”