“We will not detain Mr. Ledsam,” Oliver Hilditch interposed, a little hastily.  “He perhaps does not care to be addressed in public by a client who still carries with him the atmosphere of the prison.  My wife and I wondered, Mr. Ledsam, whether you would be good enough to dine with us one night.  I think I could interest you by telling you more about my case than you know at present, and it would give us a further opportunity, and a more seemly one, for expressing our gratitude.”

Francis had recovered himself by this time.  He was after all a man of parts, and though he still had the feeling that he had been through one of the most momentous days of his life, his savoir faire was making its inevitable reappearance.  He knew very well that the idea of that dinner would be horrible to him.  He also knew that he would willingly cancel every engagement he had rather than miss it.

“You are very kind,” he murmured.

“Are we fortunate enough to find you disengaged,” Hilditch suggested, “to-morrow evening?”

“I am quite free,” was the ready response.

“That suits you, Margaret?” Hilditch asked, turning courteously to his wife.

For a single moment her eyes were fixed upon those of her prospective guest.  He read their message which pleaded for his refusal, and he denied it.

“To-morrow evening will suit me as well as any other,” she acquiesced, after a brief pause.

“At eight o’clock, then—­number 10 b, Hill Street,” Hilditch concluded.

Francis bowed and turned away with a murmured word of polite assent.  Outside, he found Wilmore deep in the discussion of the merits of various old brandies with an interested maitre d’hotel.

“Any choice, Francis?” his host enquired.

“None whatever,” was the prompt reply, “only, for God’s sake, give me a double one quickly!”

The two men were on the point of departure when Oliver Hilditch and his wife left the restaurant.  As though conscious that they had become the subject of discussion, as indeed was the case, thanks to the busy whispering of the various waiters, they passed without lingering through the lounge into the entrance hall, where Francis and Andrew Wilmore were already waiting for a taxicab.  Almost as they appeared, a new arrival was ushered through the main entrance, followed by porters carrying luggage.  He brushed past Francis so closely that the latter looked into his face, half attracted and half repelled by the waxen-like complexion, the piercing eyes, and the dignified carriage of the man whose arrival seemed to be creating some stir in the hotel.  A reception clerk and a deputy manager had already hastened forward.  The newcomer waved them back for a moment.  Bareheaded, he had taken Margaret Hilditch’s hands in his and raised them to his lips.

“I came as quickly as I could,” he said.  “There was the usual delay, of course, at Marseilles, and the trains on were terrible.  So all has ended well.”