n doubtful of its wisdom, and yet he had not been able to think
of any other course that he would have preferred. He knew that the step
he had taken in warning the criminal was quixotic, and yet it seemed to
him that Lord Blandamer had a certain right to see his own family
portrait and papers, before they were used against him. He could not
feel sorry that he had given the opportunity, though he had certainly
hoped that Lord Blandamer would not avail himself of it.

But go to Fording he would not. That, at any rate, no fantastic
refinement of fair play could demand of him. He knew his mind at least
on this point; he would answer at once, and he got out a sheet of paper
for his refusal. It was easy to write the number of his house, and the
street, and Cullerne, and the formal "My lord," which he used again for
the address. But what then? What reason was he to give for his
refusal? He could allege no business appointment or other serious
engagement as an obstacle, for he himself had said that he was free for
a week, and had offered Lord Blandamer to make an appointment on any
day. He himself had offered an interview; to draw back now would be
mean and paltry in the extreme. It was true that the more he thought of
this meeting the more he shrank from it. But it could not be evaded
now. It was, after all, only the easiest part of the task that he had
set before him, only a prolusion to the tragedy that he would have to
play to a finish. Lord Blandamer deserved, no doubt, all the evil that
was to fall on him; but in the meanwhile he, Westray, was incapable of
refusing this small favour, asked by a man who was entirely at his
mercy.

Then he wrote with a shrinking heart, but with yet another fixed
purpose, that he would bring the picture to Fording the next day. He
preferred not to be met at the station; he would arrive some time during
the afternoon, but could only stay an hour at the most, as he had
business which would take him on to London the same evening.

It was a fine Autumn day on the morrow, and when the morning mists had
cleared away, the sun came out with surprising warmth, and dried the dew
on the lawns of many-gardened Cullerne. Towards mid-day Westray set
forth from his lodgings to go to the station, carrying under his arm the
picture, lightly packed in lath, and having in his pocket those papers
which had fallen out from the frame. He chose a route through
back-streets, and walked quickly, bu