t out a hand with a beaming countenance. "Done, old fellow!
And a thousand thanks! I'll do my part somehow if it kills me. Hullo, I
say! There's Chris calling! Hadn't we better go?"

He was plainly desirous to end the interview, and Mordaunt did not seek
to prolong it. "Come along, then!" he said. And they went out together
arm-in-arm to join the group upon the lawn.

Two hours later, just before Rupert and his friends started upon their
return journey, Bertrand happened to enter Mordaunt's writing-room, and
was surprised to find the eldest Wyndham standing by the table with a
glass of whisky-and-soda to his lips.

The surprise was mutual, and on Rupert's side so violent that he dropped
the glass, which shivered upon the floor. He uttered a fierce exclamation
as he recognized the intruder.

Bertrand was profuse in his apologies. "But I had no idea that there was
anyone here! A thousand pardons, Mr. Wyndham! It was unfortunate--but
very unfortunate. I am come only for Mr. Mordaunt's keys, which he left
here by accident. I will ring for Holmes. He will remove this _debris_.
And you will have another drink, yes?"

"I can't wait," Rupert said, almost inarticulately.

He remained standing at the table trying to compose himself, but he was
white to the lips.

Bertrand regarded him with quick concern. "Ah, but how I have alarmed
you!" he said. "My shoes are of canvas, and they make no sound. Will you,
then, sit down for a moment, while I pour out another glass of whisky?"

He drew forward a chair with much solicitude, and took up a fresh glass.
But Rupert swung away, turning his back upon him.

Prom the front of the house came the hoot of the waiting motor. Plainly
his comrades were waxing impatient.

"But you will drink before you go?" urged the courteous Frenchman. "I am
desolated to have deprived you--"

Rupert turned his face for an instant over his shoulder. It was no longer
white, but crimson and convulsed with anger. His hands were clenched.

"Oh, go to the devil!" he cried violently, and with the words stamped
furiously from the room.

Bertrand was left staring after him, petrified with amazement--too
astounded to be angry.

At the end of a lengthy pause he turned and pocketed Mordaunt's keys, and
rang the bell for Holmes to clear up the mess on the floor.

"_Mais ces anglais_!" he murmured to himself, with a whimsical shrug of
the shoulders. "_Comme ils sont droles_!"

CHAPTER VII

THE ENEMY