And now he was confronted with something he was going to loathe far more, something which would call for more sustained and elaborate deception than any he had practised yet.  He feared the eyes of an English boy more than he feared the eyes of the diplomats and the cosmopolitans of varying types who were gathered on the Bosporus during the months of heat.  He detested the idea of playing a part to a boy.  How could a mother lay plots to deceive her son?  And yet Mrs. Clarke adored Jimmy.

Rosamund and Robin started up in his mind.  He saw them before him as he had seen them one night in Westminster when Rosamund had been singing to Robin.  Ah, she had been a cruel, a terribly cruel, wife, but she had been an ideal mother!  He saw her head bent over her child, the curve of her arm round his little body.  A sensation of sickness came upon him, of soul-nausea; and again he thought, “I must get away.”

The night before the day on which Jimmy was due to arrive, Mrs. Clarke was in Constantinople.  She had gone there to meet Jimmy, and had started early in the morning, leaving Dion at Buyukderer.  When she was gone he took the Albanian’s boat and went out on the Bosporus for a row.  The man and he were both at the oars, and pulled out from the bay.  When they had gone some distance—­they had been rowing for perhaps ten minutes—­the man asked: 

“Ou allons-nous, Signore?”

“Vers Constantinople,” replied Dion.

“Bene!” replied the man.

That night Mrs. Clarke had just finished dinner when a waiter tapped at her sitting-room door.

“What is it?” she asked.

“A gentleman asks if he can see you, Madame.”

“A gentleman?  Have you got his card?”

“No, Madame; he gave no card.”

“What is he like?”

“He is English, I think, very thin and very brown.  He looks very strong.”

The waiter paused, then added: 

“He has a hungry look.”

Mrs. Clarke stared at the man with her very wide-open eyes.

“Go down and ask him to wait.”

“Yes, Madame.”

The man went out.  When he had shut the door Mrs. Clarke called: 

“Sonia!”

Her raised voice was rather harsh.

The bedroom door was opened, and the Russian maid looked into the sitting-room.

“Sonia,” said Mrs. Clarke rapidly in French, “some one—­a man—­has called and asked for me.  He’s waiting in the hall.  Go down and see who it is.  If it’s Mr. Leith you can bring him up.”

“And if it is not Monsieur Leith?”

“Come back and tell me who it is.”

The maid came out of the bedroom, shut the door, crossed the sitting-room rather heavily on flat feet, and went out on to the landing.

“Shut the door!” Mrs. Clarke called after her.

When the sitting-room door was shut she sat waiting with her forehead drawn to a frown.  She did not move till the sitting-room door was opened by the maid and a man walked in.