that will satisfy you?"

"Nothing," the editor answered, firmly.

"Then there remains nothing more," Mannering remarked, coldly, "than for
me to wish you a very good-morning."

"I am sorry," Mr. Polden said. "I trust you will believe, Mr. Mannering,
that I find this a very unpleasant duty."

Mannering made no answer save a slight bow. He held open the door, and
Mr. Polden and his satellite passed out. Afterwards he strolled to the
window and looked down idly upon the crowd.

"If I act in accordance with the conventions," he murmured to himself, "I
suppose I ought to take, a glass of poison, or blow my brains out.
Instead of which--"

He shrugged his shoulders, and rang for his hat and coat. He was due at
one of the great foundries in half an hour to speak to the men during
their luncheon interval.

"Instead of which," he muttered, as he lit a cigarette, "I shall go on to
the end."

CHAPTER VI

TREACHERY AND A TELEGRAM

The sunlight streamed down into the little grey courtyard of the _Leon
D'or_ at Bonestre. Sir Leslie Borrowdean, in an immaculate grey suit, and
with a carefully chosen pink carnation in his button-hole, sat alone at a
small table having his morning coffee. His attention was divided between
a copy of the _Figaro_ and a little pile of letters and telegrams on the
other side of his plate. More than once he glanced at the topmost of the
latter and smiled.

Mrs. Mannering and Hester came down the grey stone steps and crossed
towards their own table. The former lingered for a moment as she passed
Sir Leslie, who rose to greet the two women.

"Another glorious day!" he remarked. "What news from Leeds?"

"None," she said. "My husband seldom writes."

Sir Leslie smiled reflectively, and glanced towards the pile of papers at
his side.

"Perhaps," she remarked, "you know better than I do how things are going
there."

He shook his head.

"I have no correspondents in Leeds," he answered.

At that moment a puff of wind disturbed the papers by his side. A
telegram would have fluttered away, but Blanche Mannering caught it at
the edge of the table. She was handing it back, when a curious expression
on Borrowdean's face inspired her with a sudden idea. She deliberately
looked at the telegram, and her fingers stiffened upon it. His forward
movement was checked. She stood just out of his reach.

"No correspondents in Leeds," she repeated. "Then what about this
telegram?"

"You will permi