endless procession which they soon left to turn into a less public, more
aristocratic highway. A short distance down this street, the carriages
suddenly stopped before an eminently respectable and sedate front, and,
not long after, John Steele, somewhat to his surprise, found himself in
Lord Ronsdale's rooms and that person's presence.

The nobleman had been forewarned of John Steele's coming. He sat behind
a high desk, his figure and part of his face screened by its massive
back. One drawer of the desk was slightly opened. What could be seen of
his features appeared sharper than usual, as if the inner virulence, the
dark hidden passions smoldering in his breast had at length stamped
their impression on the outer man. When he first spoke his tones were
more irascible, less icily imperturbable, than they had been hitherto.
They seemed to tell of a secret tension he had long been laboring under;
but the steady cold eyes looked out from behind the wood barrier with
vicious assurance.

The police agent he addressed first; his services could be dispensed
with for the present; he should, however, remain in the hall with his
men. Mr. Gillett looked from the speaker to him he had brought there and
after a moment turned and obeyed; but the instant's hesitation seemed to
say that he began to realize there was more to the affair than he had
fathomed.

"There is no need for many words between us, Mr. Steele." Lord
Ronsdale's accents were poignant and sharp. "Had you listened to what
Mr. Gillett, on my behalf, would have said to you that night in the
gardens at Strathorn House, we might, possibly, both of us, have been
saved some little annoyance. We now start at about where we were before
that little contretemps."