CHAPTER XIV

The greatest tragedies in the world, provided they happen to other
people, have singularly little effect upon the externals of our own
lives. There was certainly not a soul in Soto's that night who did
not know that Bobby Fairfax had been arrested in the bar below for the
murder of Victor Bidlake, had taken poison and died on the way to the
police station. Yet the same number of dinners were ordered and eaten,
the same quantity of wine drunk. The management considered that they had
shown marvellous delicacy of feeling by restraining the orchestra
from their usual musical gymnastics until after the service of dinner.
Conversation, in consequence, buzzed louder than ever. One speculation
in particular absorbed the attention of every single person in the
room--why had Bobby Fairfax, at the zenith of a very successful career,
risked the gallows and actually accepted death for the sake of killing
Victor Bidlake, a young man with whom, so far as anybody knew, he had
no cause of quarrel whatever? There were many theories, many people who
knew the real facts and whispered them into a neighbour's ear, only to
have them contradicted a few moments later. Yet, curiously enough, the
two men who knew most about it were the two most silent men in the room,
for each was dining alone. Francis, who had remained only in the hope
that something of the sort might happen, was conscious of a queer sense
of excitement when, with the service of coffee, Sir Timothy, glass in
hand, moved up from a table lower down and with a word of apology took
the vacant place by his side. It was what he had desired, and yet he
felt a thrill almost of fear at Sir Timothy's murmured words. He felt
that he was in the company of one who, if not an enemy, at any rate had
no friendly feeling towards him.

"My congratulations, Mr. Ledsam," Sir Timothy said quietly. "You appear
to have started your career with a success."

"Only a partial one," Francis acknowledged, "and as a matter of fact I
deny that I have started in any new career. It was easy enough to make
use of a fluke and direct the intelligence of others towards the right
person, but when the real significance of the thing still eludes you,
one can scarcely claim a triumph."

Sir Timothy gently knocked the ash from the very fine cigar which he was
smoking.

"Still, your groundwork was good," he observed.

Francis shrugged his shoulders.

"That," he admitted, "was due to chance.