g man drew himself up. He was suddenly quite composed and
dignified. The passion died out of his face, leaving an expression
almost of contentment in its place.

"I wish it to be understood," he said, addressing himself to the room
generally with perfect evenness, "that, rather than allow Christine
Manderson to become engaged to George Copplestone, I will tear her to
pieces with my own hands, and utterly destroy her." And he turned, and
walked quietly out of the room.

In the silence that followed all eyes were fixed on the white, rigid
woman. Her face was drawn and haggard. She seemed to have grown old and
weak. Her whole frame appeared to have shrunk under an overwhelming
blow. For some moments she stood motionless. Then, with a supreme effort
of self-control, she turned, and faced them steadily.

"I think," she said calmly, "that if Miss Manderson is in the house she
should be warned."

"Fellow was mad," said the theatrical manager.

"_Tout-a-fait_ daft," agreed the Russian danseuse.

"It would have been safer," Tranter remarked, "if he had been given in
charge."

There was something very like contempt in Mrs. Astley-Rolfe's glance.

"Do you know," she said quietly, "that that young man is a millionaire
who lives on a pound a week, and spends the remaining nine hundred and
ninety-nine pounds a week on saving lives and souls in places in London
that people like us try to avoid even hearing about? If it is madness to
devote your life and money to lifting some of the world's shadows--then
he is very mad."

"Mosth creditable," said the Hebrew financier.

She turned her back on them, and stood apart.

Monsieur Dupont laid a hand on Tranter's arm.

"My friend," he said--and there was the faintest tremor in his voice, "I
ask you again--into what manner of house have you brought me?"

"I am beginning to wish that I had _not_ brought you," Tranter returned.
"I don't like the atmosphere."

"That," said Monsieur Dupont, drawing him aside, "is where we differ. To
me the atmosphere is extremely interesting. If I were a sportsman, I
would make you a bet that this will be an eventful evening."

"I feel strongly," said Tranter seriously, "that we should be wise to
leave. We don't want to be mixed up in an affair with a madman."

Monsieur Dupont shook his head.

"The millionaire was not mad, my friend. He may have been mad yesterday.
He may be mad to-morrow. But he is very sane to-night."

"I don't like it," Tra