John Steele silently looked at Lord Ronsdale; his brain had again become
clear; his thoughts, lucid. The ride through the cool and damp air, this
outré encounter at the end of the journey, had acted as a tonic on jaded
sense and faculty. He saw distinctly, heard very plainly; his ideas
began to marshal themselves logically. He could have laughed at Lord
Ronsdale, but the situation was too serious; the weakness of his
defenses too obvious. Proofs, proofs, proofs, were what the English jury
demanded, and where were his? He could build up a story; yes, but--if he
could have known what had taken place between Mr. Gillett and this man a
few minutes before, when the police agent had stepped in first and
tarried here a brief period before ushering him in!

Had Mr. Gillett delivered to his noble patron the memorandum book and
other articles filched from John Steele's pockets? That partly opened
drawer--what did it contain? The nobleman's hand lingered on the edge of
it; with an effort the other resisted allowing his glance to rest there.

He even refused to smile when Lord Ronsdale, after a sharper look, asked
him to be seated; he seemed to sift and weigh the pros and cons of the
invitation in a curious, calm fashion; as if he felt himself there in
some impersonal capacity for the purpose of solving a difficult
catechetical problem.

"Yes; I think I will." He sat down in a stiff, straight-backed chair; it
may be he felt the need of holding in reserve all his physical force, of
not refusing to rest, even here.

Lord Ronsdale's glance narrowed; he hesitated an instant. "To go back to
Strathorn House--a very beautiful place to go back to," his tones for