“There is the coin in the air of which I spoke,” he replied.  “Let us forget it for a moment.  Of the minor things I will make you my judge.  Ledsam and Margaret are coming to my party to-morrow night.  You, too, shall be my guest.  Such secrets as lie on the other side of that wall shall be yours.  After that, if I survive your judgment of them, and if the coin which I have thrown into the air comes, down to the tune I call—­after that—­I will remind you of something which happened last night—­of something which, if I live for many years, I shall never forget.”

She leaned towards him.  Her eyes were heavy with longing.  Her arms, sweet and white in the dusky twilight, stole hesitatingly out.

“Last night was so long ago.  Won’t you take a later memory?”

Once again she lay in his arms, still and content.

As they crossed the lawn, an hour or so later, they were confronted by Hedges—­who hastened, in fact, to meet them.

“You are being asked for on the telephone, sir,” he announced.  “It is a trunk call.  I have switched it through to the study.”

“Any name?” Sir Timothy asked indifferently.

The man hesitated.  His eyes sought his master’s respectfully but charged with meaning.

“The person refuses to give his name, sir, but I fancied that I recognised his voice.  I think it would be as well for you to speak, sir.”

Lady Cynthia sank into a chair.

“You shall go and answer your telephone call,” she said, “and leave Hedges to serve me with one of these strange drinks.  I believe I see some of my favourite orangeade.”

Sir Timothy made his way into the house and into the low, oak-beamed study with its dark furniture and latticed windows.  The telephone bell began to ring again as he entered.  He took up the receiver.

“Sir Timothy?” a rather hoarse, strained voice asked.

“I am speaking,” Sir Timothy replied.  “Who is it?”

The man at the other end spoke as though he were out of breath.  Nevertheless, what he said was distinct enough.

“I am John Walter.”

“Well?”

“I am just ringing you up,” the voice went on, “to give you what’s called a sporting chance.  There’s a boat from Southampton midday tomorrow.  If you’re wise, you’ll catch it.  Or better still, get off on your own yacht.  They carry a wireless now, these big steamers.  Don’t give a criminal much of a chance, does it?”

“I am to understand, then,” Sir Timothy said calmly, “that you have laid your information?”

“I’ve parted with it and serve you right,” was the bitter reply.  “I’m not saying that you’re not a brave man, Sir Timothy, but there’s such a thing as being foolhardy, and that’s what you are.  I wasn’t asking you for half your fortune, nor even a dab of it, but if your life wasn’t worth a few hundred pounds—­you, with all that money—­well, it wasn’t worth saving.  So now you know.  I’ve spent ninepence to give you a chance to hop it, because I met a gent who has been good to me.  I’ve had a good dinner and I feel merciful.  So there you are.”