“Nothing for the present,” was the brief reply.  “If we were to tell our story, we should only be laughed at.  What there is to be done falls to my lot.”

“Had the police anything to say about it?” Wilmore asked.

“Only a few words,” Francis replied.  “Shopland has it in hand.  A good man but unimaginative.  I’ve come across him in one or two cases lately.  You’ll find a little bit like this in the papers to-morrow:  ’The murder is believed to have been committed by one of the gang of desperadoes who have infested the west-end during the last few months.’  You remember the assault in the Albany Court Yard, and the sandbagging in Shepherd Market only last week?”

“That seems to let Sir Timothy out,” Wilmore remarked.

“There are many motives for crime besides robbery,” Francis declared.  “Don’t be afraid, Andrew, that I am going to turn amateur detective and make the unravelment of this case all the more difficult for Scotland Yard.  If I interfere, it will be on a certainty.  Andrew, don’t think I’m mad but I’ve taken up the challenge our great philanthropist flung at me to-night.  I’ve very little interest in who killed this boy Victor Bidlake, or why, but I’m convinced of one thing—­Brast knew about it, and if he is posing as a patron of crime on a great scale, sooner or later I shall get him.  He may think himself safe, and he may have the courage of Beelzebub—­he seems rather that type—­but if my presentiment about him—­comes true, his number’s up.  I can almost divine the meaning of his breaking in upon our conversation to-night.  He needs an enemy—­he is thirsting for danger.  He has found it!”

Wilmore filled his pipe thoughtfully.  At the first whiff of tobacco he began to feel more normal.

“After all, Francis,” he said, “aren’t we a little overstrung to-night?  Sir Timothy Brast is no adventurer.  He is a prince in the city, a persona grata wherever he chooses to go.  He isn’t a hanger-on in Society.  He isn’t even dependent upon Bohemia for his entertainment.  You can’t seriously imagine that a man with his possessions is likely to risk his life and liberty in becoming the inspiration of a band of cutthroats?”

Francis smiled.  He, too, had lit his pipe and had thrown himself into his favourite chair.  He smiled confidently across at his friend.

“A millionaire with brains,” he argued, “is just the one person in the world likely to weary of all ordinary forms of diversion.  I begin to remember things about him already.  Haven’t you heard about his wonderful parties down at The Walled House?”

Wilmore struck the table by his side with his clenched fist.

“By George, that’s it!” he exclaimed.  “Who hasn’t!”

“I remember Baker talking about one last year,” Francis continued, “never any details, but all kinds of mysterious hints —­a sort of mixture between a Roman orgy and a chapter from the ’Arabian Nights’—­singers from Petrograd, dancers from Africa and fighting men from Chicago.”