head of the stairs--your mother, I believe--who gave me her fingers and
called me Mr. Martin. Your uncle shook hands with me, looking over my
head to welcome some one behind. I passed on with the rest. The fault
remains, beyond a doubt, with your majordomo and my uncommon name."

"Since I have discovered you, then," she declared, "you had better let
me take you to my uncle. He has been looking everywhere for you for the
last hour. We will go this way."

She laid the extreme tips of her fingers upon his coat sleeve. He
glanced down at them for a moment. Her reluctance was evident.

"Perhaps," he suggested coolly, "we should make faster progress if I
were to follow you."

She took no further notice of him for some time. Then very suddenly she
drew him to one side out of the throng, into an almost empty anteroom--a
dismal little apartment lined with shelves full of blue books and
Parliamentary records.

"I am content to obey my guide," he remarked, "but why this abrupt
flight?"

She hesitated. Then she raised her eyes and looked at him. Perhaps
some instinct told her that the truth was best.

"Because Mr. Culvain was in that crowd," she told him. "Mr. Culvain
has been looking for you everywhere. It is only to see you that he came
here this evening. My uncle is anxious to talk with you first."