the stairs together. Outside, Wingrave was leaning back
in the corner of an electric brougham, reading the paper. Aynesworth put
his head in at the window.

"You remember Lovell, Mr. Wingrave?" he said. "We were just talking when
your message came up. I've brought him down to shake hands with you."

Wingrave folded his paper down at the precise place where he had been
reading and extended a very limp hand. His manner betrayed not the
slightest interest or pleasure.

"How are you, Lovell?" he asked. "Some time since we met!"

"A good many years," Lovell answered.

"Finished your campaigning?" Wingrave inquired. "Knocked you about a
bit, haven't they?"

"They very nearly finished me," Lovell admitted. "I shall pick up all
right over here, though."

There was a moment's silence. Lovell's thoughts had flashed backwards
through the years, back to the time when he had sat within a few feet
of this man in the crowded court of justice and listened through the
painful stillness of that heavy atmosphere, charged with tragedy, to the
slow unfolding of the drama of his life. There had been passion enough
then in his voice and blazing in his eyes, emotion enough in his
twitching features and restless gestures to speak of the fire below. And
now, pale and cold, the man who had gripped his fingers then and held on
to them like a vise, seemed to find nothing except a slight boredom in
this unexpected meeting.

"I shall see you again, I hope," Wingrave remarked at last. "By the
bye, if we do meet, I should be glad if you would forget our past
acquaintance. Sir Wingrave Seton does not exist any longer. I prefer to
be known only as Mr. Wingrave from America."

Lovell nodded.

"As you wish, of course," he answered. "I do not think," he added,
"that you need fear recognition. I myself should have passed you in the
street."

Wingrave leaned back in the carriage.

"Aynesworth," he said, "if you are ready, will you get in and tell the
man to drive to Cadogan Square? Good night, Mr. Lovell!"

Lovell re-entered the club with a queer little smile at his lips. The
brougham glided up into the Strand, and turned westwards.

"We are going straight to the Barringtons'?" Aynesworth asked.

"Yes," Wingrave answered. "While I think of it, Aynesworth, I wish you
to remember this. Both Lady Ruth and her husband seem to think it part
of the game to try and make a cat's paw of you. I am not suggesting that
they are likely to succeed, but