othes. The babel of voices ceased. Everyone was oppressed by
some vague likeness. A breathless silence ensued.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Sir Timothy said, and once more the smile upon
his lips assumed its most mocking curve, "let me introduce you to the
two artists who have given us to-night such a realistic performance,
Signor Guiseppe Elito and Signor Carlos Marlini. I had the good
fortune," he went on, "to witness this very marvellous performance in a
small music-hall at Palermo, and I was able to induce the two actors to
pay us a visit over here. Steward, these gentlemen will take a glass of
champagne."

The two Sicilians raised their glasses and bowed expectantly to the
little company. They received, however, a much greater tribute to their
performance than the applause which they had been expecting. There
reigned everywhere a deadly, stupefied silence. Only a half-stifled sob
broke from Lady Cynthia's lips as she leaned over the rail, her face
buried in her hands, her whole frame shaking.

CHAPTER XXXVI

Francis and Margaret sat in the rose garden on the following morning.
Their conversation was a little disjointed, as the conversation of
lovers in a secluded and beautiful spot should be, but they came back
often to the subject of Sir Timothy.

"If I have misunderstood your father," Francis, declared, "and I admit
that I have, it has been to some extent his own fault. To me he was
always the deliberate scoffer against any code of morals, a rebel
against the law even if not a criminal in actual deeds. I honestly
believed that The Walled House was the scene of disreputable orgies,
that your father was behind Fairfax in that cold-blooded murder, and
that he was responsible in some sinister way for the disappearance of
Reggie Wilmore. Most of these things seem to have been shams, like the
fight last night."

She moved uneasily in her place.

"I am glad I did not see that," she said, with a shiver.

"I think," he went on, "that the reason why your father insisted upon
Lady Cynthia's and my presence there was that he meant it as a sort of
allegory. Half the vices in life he claims are unreal."

Margaret passed her arm through his and leaned a little towards him.

"If you knew just one thing I have never told you," she confided, "I
think that you would feel sorry for him. I do, more and more every day,
because in a way that one thing is my fault."

Notwithstanding the warm sunshine, she suddenly shive