Mr. Sabin smoked thoughtfully for a few moments.

“Lord Robert,” he said, “I have, I believe, the right of a personal appeal.  I desire to make it.”

Lord Robert looked positively distressed.

“My dear sir,” he said, “the right of appeal, any right of any sort, belongs only to those within the circle.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Sabin agreed.  “I claim to belong there.”

Lord Roberts shrugged his shoulders.

“You force me to remind you,” he said, “of a certain decree—­a decree of expulsion passed five years ago, and of which I presume due notification was given to you.”

Mr. Sabin shook his head very slowly.

“I deny the legality of that decree,” he said.  “There can be no such thing as expulsion.”

“There was Lefanu,” Lord Robert murmured.

“He died,” Mr. Sabin answered.  “That was reasonable enough.”

“Your services had been great,” Lord Robert said, “and your fault was but venial.”

“Nevertheless,” Mr. Sabin said, “the one was logical, the other is not.”

“You claim, then,” the young man said, “to be still within the circle?”

“Certainly!”

“You are aware that this is a very dangerous claim?”

Mr. Sabin smiled, but he said nothing.  Lord Robert hastened to excuse himself.

“I beg your pardon,” he said.  “I should have known better than to have used such a word to you.  Permit me to take my leave.”

Mr. Sabin rose.

“I thank you, sir,” he said, “for the courteous manner in which you have discharged your mission.”

Lord Robert bowed.

“My good wishes,” he said, “are yours.”

Mr. Sabin when alone called Duson to him.

“Have you any report to make, Duson?” he asked.

“None, sir!”

Mr. Sabin dismissed him impatiently.

“After all, I am getting old.  He is young and he is strong—­a worthy antagonist.  Come, let us see what this little volume has to say about him.”

He turned over the pages rapidly and read aloud.

“Reginald Cyril Brott, born 18—­, son of John Reginald Brott, Esq., of Manchester.  Educated at Harrow and Merton College, Cambridge, M.A., LL.D., and winner of the Rudlock History Prize.  Also tenth wrangler.  Entered the diplomatic service on leaving college, and served as junior attache at Vienna.”

Mr. Sabin laid down the volume, and made a little calculation.  At the end of it he had made a discovery.  His face was very white and set.

“I was at Petersburg,” he muttered.  “Now I think of it, I heard something of a young English attache.  But—­”

He touched the bell.

“Duson, a carriage!”

At Camperdown House he learned that Helene was out—­shopping, the hall porter believed.  Mr. Sabin drove slowly down Bond Street, and was rewarded by seeing her brougham outside a famous milliner’s.  He waited for her upon the pavement.  Presently she came out and smiled her greetings upon him.