to write his letters, the
choice had been made; and after one or two abortive efforts, he
composed to his satisfaction a diplomatic epistle, which he
addressed to Oswyn (with whom he enjoyed a nodding acquaintance) at
the restaurant in Turk Street.

Late in the afternoon of the next day Sylvester sat alone and
expectant before a pile of temporarily neglected papers, telling
himself that Rainham ought to be very grateful for these strenuous
efforts in the interests of his injured reputation. He was beginning
to wonder nervously whether Oswyn would fail him, when he heard a
knock at the outer door, followed by an unfamiliar step, and the
clerk announced that a gentleman wished to see him by appointment on
private business. The barrister rose from his seat with a portentous
display of polite, awkward cordiality, and motioned his guest into a
chair.

"It's extremely good of you to take the trouble to come," he said
tentatively.

"That depends upon what you want of me," answered Oswyn shrewdly.
"You said in your note that it was on a matter of vital importance
to a friend of mine. I haven't so many friends that I can afford to
shirk a little trouble in a matter which vitally concerns one of
them. May I ask, in the first place, who is the friend?"

Sylvester picked up the open brief which lay before him on the
table, and folded it scrupulously.

"Philip Rainham," he answered, and then shot a quick glance at
Oswyn.

"Rainham?" echoed the other with an air suggestive at once of
surprise and relief, as if, perhaps, he had been expecting to hear
another name. "You are right, he is a friend," he added simply.
"What can I do for him?"

"Well, the fact is, I'm afraid he's got into difficulties--a scrape,
an imbroglio, with a woman!"

The painter lifted his expressive eyebrows incredulously.

"Since I last saw him--three days ago?"

"Oh, dear, no; the thing's been going on, I should say, for quite a
long time--more than a year to my knowledge."

Oswyn reflected for a moment, gazing at Sylvester with some
suspicion.

"I don't think it troubles him much," he said brusquely. "Is it any
business of mine--or of yours? Has he spoken to you about it?"

Sylvester uttered a hasty negative.

"Oh, no! He is not the sort of man who would. But other people talk.
You see, I'm afraid there's some sort of black-mail going on, and he
oughtn't to submit to it. His friends oughtn't to allow it. If--if
one could see the woman and f