he had ever seen.

"One is only a bore to others when one is ill," she said. "Good-bye.
Tell the man, please."

He obeyed her, then took off his hat. His face was grim and perplexed.
As she was driven away in the night she gave him a strange look; tragic
and pleading, he thought, a look that almost frightened him, that sent a
shiver through him.

"Is she horribly ill?" he asked himself. "What can it be? Perhaps
she did go to Switzerland to see a doctor. Perhaps . . . can he have
condemned her to death?"

He shivered again. The expression of her eyes haunted him.

He stood for a moment at the street corner, pondering over her words.
What could have induced her to ask him to go back to Beryl Van Tuyn, to
see Beryl Van Tuyn home? She wanted him to interfere between Miss Van
Tuyn and that man, Nicolas Arabian! She tried metaphorically to push
him towards Miss Van Tuyn. It was inexplicable. Lady Sellingworth was a
woman of the world, past mistress of all the _convenances_, one in whom
any breach of good manners was impossible, unthinkable! And yet she had
asked him to go back to the restaurant, and to thrust himself into the
company of a girl and a man who were dining by themselves. She had
even asked him, a young fellow, certainly younger than Beryl Van Tuyn's
escort, to play the part of chaperon to the girl!

Did she--could she know something about Arabian?

Certainly she did not know him. In the restaurant she had inquired who
he was. But, later, she had said that his profile seemed familiar to
her, that perhaps she had seen him about London. Her departure from the
restaurant had been strangely abrupt. Perhaps--could she have recognized
Arabian after he, Craven, had left her alone and had gone to speak to
Miss Van Tuyn? The man looked a wrong 'un. Craven felt certain he was
a wrong 'un. But if so, surely Lady Sellingworth could not know him,
or even know anything about him. There was something so remote and
distinguished about her life, her solitary, retired life. She did not
come in contact with such people.

"Get you a kib, gentleman?" said a soft cockney voice in Craven's ear.

He started, and walked on quickly. In Lady Sellingworth's conduct that
night, in the last look she had given him, there was mystery. He was
quite unable to fathom it, and he went home to his flat in the greatest
perplexity, and feeling very uneasy.

When Murgatroyd opened the door to his mistress it was not much after
nine, and he w