ncis broke off abruptly in the middle of his sentence. He sat with
his eyes fixed upon the door, silent and speechless.

"What in Heaven's name is the matter, old fellow?" Wilmore demanded,
gazing at his companion in blank amazement.

The latter pulled himself together with an effort. The sight of the two
new arrivals talking to Louis on the threshold of the restaurant, seemed
for the moment to have drawn every scrap of colour from his cheeks.
Nevertheless, his recovery was almost instantaneous.

"If you want to know any more," he said calmly, "you had better go and
ask him to tell you the whole story himself. There he is."

"And the woman with him?" Wilmore exclaimed under his breath.

"His wife!"

CHAPTER IV

To reach their table, the one concerning which Francis and his friend
had been speculating, the new arrivals, piloted by Louis, had to pass
within a few feet of the two men. The woman, serene, coldly beautiful,
dressed like a Frenchwoman in unrelieved black, with extraordinary
attention to details, passed them by with a careless glance and subsided
into the chair which Louis was holding. Her companion, however, as he
recognised Francis hesitated. His expression of somewhat austere gloom
was lightened. A pleasant but tentative smile parted his lips. He
ventured upon a salutation, half a nod, half a more formal bow, a
salutation which Francis instinctively returned. Andrew Wilmore looked
on with curiosity.

"So that is Oliver Hilditch," he murmured.

"That is the man," Francis observed, "of whom last evening half the
people in this restaurant were probably asking themselves whether or
not he was guilty of murder. To-night they will be wondering what he is
going to order for dinner. It is a strange world."

"Strange indeed," Wilmore assented. "This afternoon he was in the dock,
with his fate in the balance--the condemned cell or a favoured table at
Claridge's. And your meeting! One can imagine him gripping your hands,
with tears in his eyes, his voice broken with emotion, sobbing out his
thanks. And instead you exchange polite bows. I would not have missed
this situation for anything."

"Tradesman!" Francis scoffed. "One can guess already at the plot of your
next novel."

"He has courage," Wilmore declared. "He has also a very beautiful
companion. Were you serious, Francis, when you told me that that was his
wife?"

"She herself was my informant," was the quiet reply.

Wilmore was puzzled.