And so I found myself within that little sanctum, inside which, as I afterwards learned, no other foot had for three years been set save that of the old servant who cleaned it out.  It was a round room, conforming to the shape of the tower in which it was situated, with a low ceiling, a single narrow, ivy-wreathed window, and the simplest of furniture.  An old carpet, a single chair, a deal table, and a small shelf of books made up the whole contents.  On the table stood a full-length photograph of a woman—­I took no particular notice of the features, but I remember, that a certain gracious gentleness was the prevailing impression.  Beside it were a large black japanned box and one or two bundles of letters or papers fastened together with elastic bands.

Our interview was a short one, for Sir John Bollamore perceived that I was soaked, and that I should change without delay.  The incident led, however, to an instructive talk with Richards, the agent, who had never penetrated into the chamber which chance had opened to me.  That very afternoon he came to me, all curiosity, and walked up and down the garden path with me, while my two charges played tennis upon the lawn beside us.

“You hardly realize the exception which has been made in your favour,” said he.  “That room has been kept such a mystery, and Sir John’s visits to it have been so regular and consistent, that an almost superstitious feeling has arisen about it in the household.  I assure you that if I were to repeat to you the tales which are flying about, tales of mysterious visitors there, and of voices overheard by the servants, you might suspect that Sir John had relapsed into his old ways.”

“Why do you say relapsed?” I asked.

He looked at me in surprise.

“Is it possible,” said he, “that Sir John Bollamore’s previous history is unknown to you?”

“Absolutely.”

“You astound me.  I thought that every man in England knew something of his antecedents.  I should not mention the matter if it were not that you are now one of ourselves, and that the facts might come to your ears in some harsher form if I were silent upon them.  I always took it for granted that you knew that you were in the service of `Devil’ Bollamore.”

“But why `Devil’?” I asked.

“Ah, you are young and the world moves fast, but twenty years ago the name of `Devil’ Bollamore was one of the best known in London.  He was the leader of the fastest set, bruiser, driver, gambler, drunkard—­a survival of the old type, and as bad as the worst of them.”

I stared at him in amazement.

“What!” I cried, “that quiet, studious, sad-faced man?”

“The greatest rip and debauchee in England!  All between ourselves, Colmore.  But you understand now what I mean when I say that a woman’s voice in his room might even now give rise to suspicions.”

“But what can have changed him so?”