CHAPTER IV


To reach their table, the one concerning which Francis and his
friend had been speculating, the new arrivals, piloted by Louis,
had to pass within a few feet of the two men. The woman, serene,
coldly beautiful, dressed like a Frenchwoman in unrelieved black,
with extraordinary attention to details, passed them by with a
careless glance and subsided into the chair which Louis was
holding. Her companion, however, as he recognised Francis
hesitated. His expression of somewhat austere gloom was
lightened. A pleasant but tentative smile parted his lips. He
ventured upon a salutation, half a nod, half a more formal bow, a
salutation which Francis instinctively returned. Andrew Wilmore
looked on with curiosity.

"So that is Oliver Hilditch," he murmured.

"That is the man," Francis observed, "of whom last evening half
the people in this restaurant were probably asking themselves
whether or not he was guilty of murder. To-night they will be
wondering what he is going to order for dinner. It is a strange
world."

"Strange indeed," Wilmore assented. "This afternoon he was in
the dock, with his fate in the balance--the condemned cell or a
favoured table at Claridge's. And your meeting! One can imagine
him gripping your hands, with tears in his eyes, his voice broken
with emotion, sobbing out his thanks. And instead you exchange