s party. He
invited West to dine with them informally on the night of his return.

His sister, Lady Cottesbrook, a gay and garrulous lady some years his
senior, received the new agent with considerable condescension. She
bestowed scant attention upon him during dinner, and West presented his
most impenetrable demeanour in consequence, refusing steadily to avail
himself of Babbacombe's courteous efforts to draw him into the
conversation.

He would have excused himself later from accompanying his host into the
drawing-room, but Babbacombe insisted upon this so stubbornly that
finally, with his characteristic lift of the shoulders, he yielded.

As they entered, Lady Cottesbrook raised her glasses, and favoured him
with a close scrutiny.

"It's very curious," she said, "but I can't help feeling as if I have
seen you somewhere before. You have the look of some one I knew years
ago--some one I didn't like--but I can't remember who."

"Just as well, perhaps," said Babbacombe, with a careless laugh, though
a faint flush of annoyance rose in his face. "Come over here, West. You
can smoke. My sister likes it."

He seated himself at the piano, indicated a chair near him to his guest,
and began to play.

West, with his back to the light, sat motionless, listening. Lady
Cottesbrook took up a book, and ignored him. There was something
unfathomable about her brother's bailiff to which she strongly objected.

An hour later, when he had gone, she spoke of it.

"That man has the eyes of a criminal, Jack. I am sure he isn't
trustworthy. He is too brazen. Where in the world did you pick him up?"

To which Babbacombe made composed reply:

"I know all about him, and he is absolutely trustworthy. He was
recommended to me by a friend. I am sorry you thought it necessary to be
rude to him. There is nothing offensive about him that I can see."

"My dear boy, you see nothing offensive in a great many people whom I
positively detest. However, he isn't worth an argument. Only, if you
must ask the man to dine, for goodness' sake another time have some one
else for me to talk to. I frankly admit that I have no talent for
entertaining people of that class. Now tell me the latest about Cynthia
Mortimer. Of course, she is one of the chosen guests?"

"She has promised to spend a week here," Babbacombe answered somewhat
reluctantly. "I haven't seen her lately. She has been in Paris."

"What has she been doing there? Buying her trousseau?"