crowd of guests, still infected with a
sort of awed excitement, were allowed to take their leave. Francis and
Wilmore drove almost in silence to the former's rooms in Clarges Street.

"Come up and have a drink, Andrew," Francis invited.

"I need it," was the half-choked response.

Francis led the way in silence up the two flights of stairs into his
sitting-room, mixed whiskies and sodas from the decanter and syphon
which stood upon the sideboard, and motioned his friend to an
easy-chair. Then he gave form to the thought which had been haunting
them both.

"What about our friend Sir Timothy Brast?" he enquired. "Do you believe
now that he was pulling our legs?"

Wilmore dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief. It was a chilly
evening, but there were drops of perspiration still standing there.

"Francis," he confessed, "it's horrible! I don't think realism like this
attracts me. It's horrible! What are we going to do?"

"Nothing for the present," was the brief reply. "If we were to tell our
story, we should only be laughed at. What there is to be done falls to
my lot."

"Had the police anything to say about it?" Wilmore asked.

"Only a few words," Francis replied. "Shopland has it in hand. A good
man but unimaginative. I've come across him in one or two cases lately.
You'll find a little bit like this in the papers to-morrow: 'The murder
is believed to have been committed by one of the gang of desperadoes who
have infested the west-end during the last few months.' You remember the
assault in the Albany Court Yard, and the sandbagging in Shepherd Market
only last week?"

"That seems to let Sir Timothy out," Wilmore remarked.

"There are many motives for crime besides robbery," Francis declared.
"Don't be afraid, Andrew, that I am going to turn amateur detective and
make the unravelment of this case all the more difficult for Scotland
Yard. If I interfere, it will be on a certainty. Andrew, don't think I'm
mad but I've taken up the challenge our great philanthropist flung at
me to-night. I've very little interest in who killed this boy Victor
Bidlake, or why, but I'm convinced of one thing--Brast knew about it,
and if he is posing as a patron of crime on a great scale, sooner or
later I shall get him. He may think himself safe, and he may have the
courage of Beelzebub--he seems rather that type--but if my presentiment
about him--comes true, his number's up. I can almost divine the meaning
of his breaking in u