bly, both of us, have been
saved some little annoyance. We now start at about where we were before
that little contretemps."

John Steele silently looked at Lord Ronsdale; his brain had again become
clear; his thoughts, lucid. The ride through the cool and damp air, this
outre encounter at the end of the journey, had acted as a tonic on jaded
sense and faculty. He saw distinctly, heard very plainly; his ideas
began to marshal themselves logically. He could have laughed at Lord
Ronsdale, but the situation was too serious; the weakness of his
defenses too obvious. Proofs, proofs, proofs, were what the English jury
demanded, and where were his? He could build up a story; yes, but--if he
could have known what had taken place between Mr. Gillett and this man a
few minutes before, when the police agent had stepped in first and
tarried here a brief period before ushering him in!

Had Mr. Gillett delivered to his noble patron the memorandum book and
other articles filched from John Steele's pockets? That partly opened
drawer--what did it contain? The nobleman's hand lingered on the edge of
it; with an effort the other resisted allowing his glance to rest there.

He even refused to smile when Lord Ronsdale, after a sharper look, asked
him to be seated; he seemed to sift and weigh the pros and cons of the
invitation in a curious, calm fashion; as if he felt himself there in
some impersonal capacity for the purpose of solving a difficult
catechetical problem.

"Yes; I think I will." He sat down in a stiff, straight-backed chair; it
may be he felt the need of holding in reserve all his physical force, of
not refusing to rest, even here.

Lord Ronsdale's glance narrowed; he hesitated an instant. "To go back to
Strathorn House--a very beautiful place to go back to," his tones for
the moment lapsed to that high pitch they sometimes assumed, "Mr Gillett
had there received from me certain instructions. Whatever you once
were," seeming not to notice the other's expression, "you have since by
your own efforts attained much. How--?" His brows knit as at something
inexplicable. "But the fact remained, was perhaps considered. Exposure
would have meant some--unpleasantness for your friends." The eyes of the
two men met; those of Lord Ronsdale were full of sardonic meaning.
"Friends who had trusted you; who," softly, "had admitted you to their
firesides, not knowing--" he broke off. "They," he still adhered to the
plural, "would have been