the woman who, together with her terrible story, had never for
one moment been out of his thoughts. Andrew Wilmore, who had
observed his action, spoke of it as they settled down to lunch.

"So you are going to keep your engagement tonight, Francis?" he
observed.

The latter nodded.

"After all, why not?" he asked, a little defiantly. "It ought to
be interesting."

"Well, there's nothing of the sordid criminal, at any rate, about
Oliver Hilditch," Wilmore declared. "Neither, if one comes to
think of it, does his wife appear to be the prototype of
suffering virtue. I wonder if you are wise to go, Francis?"

"Why not?" the man who had asked himself that question a dozen
times already, demanded.

"Because," Wilmore replied coolly, "underneath that steely
hardness of manner for which your profession is responsible, you
have a vein of sentiment, of chivalrous sentiment, I should say,
which some day or other is bound to get you into trouble. The
woman is beautiful enough to turn any one's head. As a matter of
fact, I believe that you are more than half in love with her
already."

Francis Ledsam sat where the sunlight fell upon his strong,
forceful face, shone, too, upon the table with its simple but