“I find myself in some difficulty as regards Lady Cynthia,” he admitted.  “I am the guardian of nobody’s morals, nor am I the censor of their tastes, but my entertainments are for men.  The women whom I have hitherto asked have been women in whom I have taken no personal interest.  They are necessary to form a picturesque background for my rooms, in the same way that I look to the gardeners to supply the floral decorations.  Lady Cynthia’s instincts, however, are somewhat adventurous.  She would scarcely be content to remain a decoration.”

“The issuing of your invitations,” Francis remarked, “is of course a matter which concerns nobody else except yourself.  If you do decide to favour me with one, I shall be delighted to come, provided Margaret has no objection.”

“Such a reservation promises well for the future,” Sir Timothy observed, with gentle sarcasm.  “Here comes Margaret, looking very well, I am glad to see.”

Margaret came forward to greet her father before stepping into the car.  They exchanged only a few sentences, but Francis, whose interest in their relations was almost abnormally keen, fancied that he could detect signs of some change in their demeanour towards one another.  The cold propriety of deportment which had characterised her former attitude towards her father, seemed to have given place to something more uncertain, to something less formal, something which left room even for a measure of cordiality.  She looked at him differently.  It was as though some evil thought which lived in her heart concerning him had perished.

“You are busy over there, father?” she asked.

“In a way,” he replied.  “We are preparing for some festivities on Thursday.”

Her face fell.

“Another party?”

“One more,” he replied.  “Perhaps the last—­for the present, at any rate.”

She waited as though expecting him to explain.  He changed the subject, however.

“I think you are wise to run up to town this morning,” he said, glancing up at the grey skies.  “By-the-bye, if you dine at Curzon Street to-night, do ask Hedges to serve you some of the ’99 Cliquot.  A marvellous wine, as you doubtless know, Ledsam, but it should be drunk.  Au revoir!”

Francis, after a pleasant lunch at Ranelagh, and having arranged with Margaret to dine with her in Curzon Street, spent an hour or two that afternoon at his chambers.  As he was leaving, just before five, he came face to face with Shopland descending from a taxi.

“Are you busy, Mr. Ledsam?” the latter enquired.  “Can you spare me half-an-hour?”

“An hour, if you like,” Francis assented.

Shopland gave the driver an address and the two men seated themselves in the taxicab.

“Any news?” Francis asked curiously.

“Not yet,” was the cautious reply.  “It will not be long, however.”

“Before you discover Reggie Wilmore?”