"The gentleman begged you to excuse his coming here, sir," the man
whispered, confidentially, "but he is returning to the country this
evening, and was anxious to see you. He is quite ready to wait your
convenience."

Borrowdean held the card in his hand, scrutinizing it with impassive
face. Was this a piece of unparalleled good fortune, or simply a trick of
the fates to tempt him on to catastrophe? With that wonderful swiftness
of thought which was part of his mental equipment he balanced the
chances--and took his risk.

"I should be glad," he said, looking the servant in the face, "if you
would show the gentleman up here as an ordinary visitor. I should like to
find you down stairs when I come out. You understand?"

"Perfectly, sir," the man answered, and withdrew.

Mannering had no idea whose house he was in. The address Borrowdean's
servant had given him had been simply 81, Grosvenor Square. Nevertheless,
he was conscious of a little annoyance as he followed the servant up the
broad stairs. He would much have preferred waiting until Borrowdean had
concluded his call. He remembered his grey travelling clothes, and all
his natural distaste for social amenities returned with unabated force as
he neared the reception-rooms and heard the softly modulated rise and
fall of feminine voices, the swishing of silks and muslin, the faint
perfume of flowers and scents which seemed to fill the air. At the last
moment he would have withdrawn, but his guide seemed deaf. His words
passed unheeded. His name, very softly but very distinctly, had been
announced. He had no option but to pass into the room and play the cards
which fate and his friend had dealt him.