“Please use your authority, Bobby,” she said.  “And when you’ve got him safely under canvas, come back to me.  It’s years since we’ve had a talk.”  She nodded and smiled, then instantly turned to Bramfell with some trivial remark.

For a second Loder waited, then with a movement of resignation he laid his hand on Blessington’s arm.  “Very well!” he said.  “But if my fate is black, witness it was my wife who sent me to it.”  His faint pause on the word wife, the mention of the word itself in the presence of these people, had a savor of recklessness.  The small discomfiture of his earlier slip vanished before it; he experienced a strong reaction of confidence in his luck.  With a cool head, a steady step, and a friendly pressure of the fingers on Blessington’s arm, he allowed himself to be drawn across the reception-rooms, through the long corridors, and down the broad flight of steps that led to the conservatory.

The conservatory was a feature of the Bramfell townhouse, and to Loder it came as something wonderful and unlooked-for—­with its clustering green branches, its slight, unoppressive scents, its temperately pleasant atmosphere.  He felt no wish to speak as, still guided by Blessington, he passed down the shadowy paths that in the half-light had the warmth and mystery of a Southern garden.  Here and there from the darkness came the whispering of a voice or the sound of a laugh, bringing with them the necessary touch of life.  Otherwise the place was still.

Absorbed by the air of solitude, contrasting so remarkably with the noise and crowded glitter left behind in the reception-rooms, he had moved half-way down the long, green aisle before the business in hand came back to him with a sudden sense of annoyance.  It seemed so paltry to mar the quiet of the place with the absurdity of a side-show.  He turned to Blessington with a touch of abruptness.

“What am I expected to do?” he asked.

Blessington looked up, surprised.  “Why, I thought, sir—­” he began.  Then he instantly altered his tone:  “Oh, just enter into the spirit of the thing.  Lady Astrupp won’t put much strain on your credulity, but she’ll make a big call on your solemnity.”  He laughed.

He had an infectious laugh, and Loder responded to it.

“But what am I to do?” he persisted.

“Oh, nothing.  Being the priestess, she, naturally demands acolytes; but she’ll let you know that she holds the prior place.  The tent is so fixed that she sees nothing beyond your hands; so there’s absolutely no delusion.”  He laughed once more.  Then suddenly he lowered his voice and slackened his steps.  “Here we are!” he whispered, in pretended awe.

At the end of the path the space widened to the full breadth of the conservatory.  The light was dimmer, giving an added impression of distance; away to the left, Loder heard the sound of splashing water, and on his right hand he caught his first glimpse of the tent that was his goal.