His companion was of a different calibre. Still apparently in the early
thirties, tall, and with clear-cut aristocratic features, he was
decidedly good to look upon. His face, fair as that of a woman, was
perhaps slightly marred by the expression of weakness which lurked round
the finely-moulded lips; but for all that it was stamped with the latent
nobility which characterised his race.

The Hon. Adrien Leroy, only son of Baron Barminster, was one of the most
noted figures in fashionable society. His father, who since the death of
Lady Barminster had lived almost as a recluse, spent the days in the old
Castle, and had practically abdicated in favour of his son. So that the
colossal income accruing from the coal mines of Wales, the rentals of
the Leroy estates in the Southern Counties, and the ground rents of a
considerable acreage in one of the most fashionable parts of London, all
passed through the hands of Adrien, who, in his turn, spent it like
water, leaving Jasper Vermont--his one-time college friend and now his
confidential steward--to watch over his affairs.

Leroy, with a genial smile of greeting for all, but a grave, almost
weary expression in his blue eyes, parried the numerous questions and
invitations that beset him on all sides, and, taking Vermont's arm, drew
him towards the table where his three friends awaited him.

"I'm sorry we're late," he said in a pleasant voice, which was clear and
unaffected, in strong contrast to the chatter which buzzed round him at
their entry. "Blame Jasper, who, if he is as hungry as I am, is punished
already."

His good-humoured laugh as he seated himself drew echoes from his