had just come from London with an urgent
message from his master.

"Dear me," said Sir Reginald, looking up, "that is very strange! Why
couldn't he have written or telegraphed? It must be something very
serious, I am afraid. Ah--yes, Ambrose, tell him to sit down in the
hall, I'll see him in a few minutes."

The door closed, and, as it did so, out of the black, long, buried past
there came a pale flash of rising fear.

Sir Reginald was one of those men who have practically no thought or
feeling outside the circle of their own desires and ambitions. He had
lived on good terms with his fellow men, not out of any respect for
them, but simply because it was more convenient and comfortable for
himself. He had committed the worst of crimes against his friend, Sir
Arthur Maxwell, in perfect callousness, simply because the woman Maxwell
had married and inspired him with the only passion, the only enthusiasm
of which he was capable. He had never felt a single pang of remorse for
it. The sinner who sins through absolute selfishness as he had done
never does. In fact, his only uncomfortable feeling in connection with
the whole affair had been the fear of discovery, and that, as the years
had gone on, had died away until it had become only an evil memory to
him. And yet, why did Koda Bux, the man who had so nearly discovered his
infamy twenty-two years ago, come here alone to the Abbey to-day?

Ah, yes, to-day! A diary lay open on the writing-table before him. The
28th of June. The very day--but that of course was merely a coincidence.
Well, he would hear what Koda Bux had to say. He signed a letter, put it
into an envelope, and addressed it. Then he touched the bell. Ambrose
appeared, and he said:

"You can show the man in now."

"Very good, Sir Reginald," replied the man, and vanished.

A few moments later the door opened again and Koda Bux came in, looked
at Sir Reginald for a few moments straight in the eyes, and then
salaamed with subtle oriental humility.

"May my face be bright in your eyes, protector of the poor and husband
of the widow!" he said, as he raised himself erect again. "I have
brought a message from my master."

"Well, Koda Bux," said Sir Reginald, a trifle uneasily, for he didn't
quite like the extreme gravity with which the Pathan spoke.

"I suppose it must be something important and confidential, if he has
sent you here instead of writing or telegraphing. Of course, you have a
letter from him?"