a taxicab.

"507 Berkeley Square," he told the driver.

It was a surprised footman who opened the door of the Duke of Burghley's
house. Fairfield, at the man's look of astonishment, remembered that he
was unshaven, and that his clothes had been thrown on haphazard. It was
a queer thought to intrude at such a time. But he was usually a
scrupulously dressed man, and the triviality worried him.

"Lady Eileen Meredith. I must see her at once," he said peremptorily.
"Don't stand staring at me, man. You know me."

The footman coughed apologetically.

"Yes, Sir Ralph. Lady Eileen is not up yet. If it is important I can get
a maid to call her. Shall I tell his Grace?"

"No. It is of the utmost importance that I see her personally
immediately."

Sir Ralph breathed a sigh of relief as he was ushered into the cool
morning room and the door closed behind him. At all events, the police
had not seen her yet. He was first. That meant he would have to break
the news to her. How would she take it?

"The poor little girl!" he muttered to himself. And then the door
clicked.

Eileen Meredith stood there, a pink dressing-gown enveloping her
graceful figure from shoulders to feet. There was questioning wonder in
her grey eyes as she extended her hand, but no alarm. He almost wished
there was. It would have made things easier.

"You, Sir Ralph?" she cried. "What has brought you here so early? Has
Bob repented of his bargain and sent you to call it off at the last
moment?"

The man fumbled for words. Now that he was face to face with her the
phrase he had so laboriously worked out to lead up to the news had
deserted him. He pushed a chair towards her.

"Er--won't you sit down?" he said awkwardly.

He was striving for an opening. Both words and tone called the girl's
direct attention to the haggard face, the feverish eyes. Her fears were
alight on the instant. She regarded him with parted lips and gripped
his arm impulsively.

"Something has happened!" she cried apprehensively. "Why do you look
like that? What is it?" Her voice rose and she tried to shake the silent
man. "Answer--why don't you answer? Is he ill--dead?"

Sir Ralph choked over his reply.

"He was killed last night--murdered."

It was out at last. He had blundered clumsily, and he knew it. The
colour drained from Eileen's face and she stood rigid as a statue for a
moment. Then slowly she swayed forward. He stretched out his arms to
prevent her from falling.