through the main entrance, followed by porters carrying luggage.
He brushed past Francis so closely that the latter looked into
his face, half attracted and half repelled by the waxen-like
complexion, the piercing eyes, and the dignified carriage of the
man whose arrival seemed to be creating some stir in the hotel.
A reception clerk and a deputy manager had already hastened
forward. The newcomer waved them back for a moment. Bareheaded,
he had taken Margaret Hilditch's hands in his and raised them to
his lips.

"I came as quickly as I could," he said. "There was the usual
delay, of course, at Marseilles, and the trains on were terrible.
So all has ended well."

Oliver Hilditch, standing by, remained speechless. It seemed for
a moment as though his self-control were subjected to a severe
strain.

"I had the good fortune," he interposed, in a low tone, "to be
wonderfully defended. Mr. Ledsam here--"

He glanced around. Francis, with some idea of what was coming,
obeyed an imaginary summons from the head-porter, touched Andrew
Wilmore upon the shoulder, and hastened without a backward glance
through the swing-doors. Wilmore turned up his coat-collar and
looked doubtfully up at the rain.

"I say, old chap," he protested, "you don't really mean to walk?"

Francis thrust his hand through his friend's arm and wheeled him