“That’s all very well,” Wilmore observed, “but you know what it will mean, don’t you?  Lawyers aren’t likely to single you out for a brief without ever feeling sure whether you will accept it or not.”

“That doesn’t worry me,” Francis declared.  “I don’t need the fees, fortunately, and I can always pick up enough work to keep me going by attending Sessions.  One thing I can promise you—­I certainly shall not sit in my rooms and wait for things to happen.  Mine is a militant spirit and it needs the outlet of action.”

“Action, yes, but how?” Wilmore queried.  “You can’t be always hanging about the courts, waiting for the chance of defending some poor devil who’s been wrongfully accused—­there aren’t enough of them, for one thing.  On the other hand, you can’t walk down Regent Street, brandishing a two-edged sword and hunting for pickpockets.”

Francis smiled.

“Nothing so flamboyant, I can assure you, Andrew,” he replied; “nor shall I play the amateur detective with his mouth open for mysteries.  But listen,” he went on earnestly.  “I’ve had some experience, as you know, and, notwithstanding the Oliver Hilditch’s of the world, I can generally tell a criminal when I meet him face to face.  There are plenty of them about, too, Andrew—­as many in this place as any other.  I am not going to be content with a negative position as regards evildoers.  I am going to set my heel on as many of the human vermin of this city as I can find.”

“A laudable, a most exhilarating and delightful pursuit! `human vermin,’ too, is excellent.  It opens up a new and fascinating vista for the modern sportsman.  My congratulations!”

It was an interruption of peculiar and wonderful significance, but Francis did not for the moment appreciate the fact.  Turning his head, he simply saw a complete stranger seated unaccountably at the next table, who had butted into a private conversation and whose tone of gentle sarcasm, therefore, was the more offensive.

“Who the devil are you, sir,” he demanded, “and where did you come from?”

The newcomer showed no resentment at Francis’ little outburst.  He simply smiled with deprecating amiability—­a tall, spare man, with lean, hard face, complexion almost unnaturally white; black hair, plentifully besprinkled with grey; a thin, cynical mouth, notwithstanding its distinctly humourous curve, and keen, almost brilliant dark eyes.  He was dressed in ordinary dinner garb; his linen and jewellery was indeed in the best possible taste.  Francis, at his second glance, was troubled with a vague sense of familiarity.

“Let me answer your last question first, sir,” the intruder begged.  “I was seated alone, several tables away, when the couple next to you went out, and having had pointed out to me the other evening at Claridge’s Hotel, and knowing well by repute, the great barrister, Mr. Francis Ledsam, and his friend the world-famed novelist, Mr. Andrew Wilmore, I—­er—­unobtrusively made my way, half a yard at a time, in your direction—­and here I am.  I came stealthily, you may object?  Without a doubt.  If I had come in any other fashion, I should have disturbed a conversation in which I was much interested.”