CHAPTER II


Francis Ledsam arrived at his club, the Sheridan, an hour later
than he had anticipated. He nodded to the veteran hall-porter,
hung up his hat and stick, and climbed the great staircase to the
card-room without any distinct recollection of performing any of
these simple and reasonable actions. In the cardroom he
exchanged a few greetings with friends, accepted without comment
or without the slightest tinge of gratification a little chorus
of chafing congratulations upon his latest triumph, and left the
room without any inclination to play, although there was a vacant
place at his favourite table. From sheer purposelessness he
wandered back again into the hall, and here came his first gleam
of returning sensation. He came face to face with his most
intimate friend, Andrew Wilmore. The latter, who had just hung
up his coat and hat, greeted him with a growl of welcome.

"So you've brought it off again, Francis!"

"Touch and go," the barrister remarked. "I managed to squeak
home."

Wilmore laid his hand upon his friend's shoulder and led the way
towards two easy-chairs in the lounge.

"I tell you what it is, old chap," he confided, "you'll be making
yourself unpopular before long. Another criminal at large,
thanks to that glib tongue and subtle brain of yours. The crooks
of London will present you with a testimonial when you're made a