“I am afraid that the only person who can enlighten you further, sir, is Colonel Ray,” I answered.  “I understood you to say, I believe, that he would be here shortly.”

“I insist upon it,” the Duke said sternly, “that you tell me what you know at once and without further prevarication.”

I was in a dilemma from which there seemed to be no escape.  Lady Angela had seated herself in my easy chair and was keeping her face averted from me.  The Duke stood between us.

“I know very little, sir, except what I overheard,” I declared.  “Colonel Ray was, I believe, responsible for Lord Blenavon’s abrupt departure, and I would rather that your information came from him.”

“Colonel Ray is not here, and you are,” the Duke answered.  “Remember that I am no trifler with words.  I have said that I insist.  I repeat it!”

There seemed to be no escape for me.  Lady Angela remained silent, the Duke was plainly insistent.  I did not dare to trifle with him.

“Very good, your Grace,” I said, “I will tell you what I know.  It dates from last Monday, when you will remember that I was in London to attend a meeting of the Council.”

“Go on!”

“I returned here by the last train, bringing with me the notes and instructions taken at that meeting.  Outside Braster Grange an attack was made upon me, evidently with the intention of securing these.  I escaped, with the assistance of Colonel Ray, who had come down from London by the same train unknown to me.”

“Well?”

“The attack was made from the grounds of Braster Grange.  It seems that Lord Blenavon spent the night there.  The next morning Colonel Ray insisted upon my accompanying him to Braster Grange.  Lord Blenavon was still there, and we saw him.  He was suffering from wounds such as in the darkness I had inflicted upon my assailant of the night before.”

It seemed to me that even then the Duke would not, or could not, understand.  His brows were knitted into a heavy frown, and he was evidently following my story with close attention.  But exactly where I was going to lead, he seemed to have no idea.

“The tenant of Braster Grange,” I continued, “is a Mrs. Smith-Lessing, whom Colonel Ray has told me is a servant of the French secret police.  I am afraid that Lord Blenavon has been a good deal under her influence.”

Then the Duke blazed out, which was very much what I expected from him.  Horror, amazement, and scornful disbelief were all expressed in his transfigured face and angry words.

“Blenavon!  My son!  The confederate of a French spy!  What nonsense!  Who dares to suggest such a thing?  Angela—­I—­I beg your pardon.”

He stopped short, making an effort to regain his self-control.  He continued in a more collected manner, but his voice still shook with inexpressible scorn.

“Angela,” he said, turning to her, “is it within your knowledge that Blenavon had any acquaintance with this person?”