gentlemen good afternoon. I've
business to attend to."

Francis looked at him curiously.

"Haven't I seen you somewhere before?" he asked, a little abruptly.

"I can't say. My name is John Maclane."

"Heavy-weight champion about seven years ago?"

"I was," the man acknowledged. "You may have seen me in the ring. Now,
gentlemen, if you please."

The lift had stopped opposite to them. The manager's gesture of
dismissal was final.

"I am sorry, Mr. Maclane, if we have annoyed you with our questions,"
Francis said. "I wish you could remember a little more of Mr. Wilmore's
last visit."

"Well, I can't, and that's all there is to it," was the blunt reply. "As
to being annoyed, I am only annoyed when my time's wasted. Take these
gents down, Jim. Good afternoon!"

The door was slammed to and they shot downwards. Francis turned to the
lift man.

"Do you know a Mr. Wilmore who comes here sometimes?" he asked.

"Not likely!" the man scoffed. "They're comin' and goin' all the time
from four o'clock in the afternoon till eleven at night. If I heard a
name I shouldn't remember it. This way out, gentlemen."

Wilmore's hand was in his pocket but the man turned deliberately away.
They walked out into the street.

"For downright incivility," the former observed, "commend me to the
attendants of a young men's gymnasium!"

Francis smiled.

"All the same, old fellow," he said, "if you worry for another five
minutes about Reggie, you're an ass."

At six o'clock that evening Francis turned his two-seater into a winding
drive bordered with rhododendrons, and pulled up before the porch of
a charming two-storied bungalow, covered with creepers, and with
French-windows opening from every room onto the lawns. A man-servant who
had heard the approach of the car was already standing in the porch. Sir
Timothy, in white flannels and a panama hat, strolled across the lawn to
greet his approaching guest.

"Excellently timed, my young friend," he said. "You will have time for
your first cocktail before you change. My daughter you know, of course.
Lady Cynthia Milton I think you also know."

Francis shook hands with the two girls who were lying under the cedar
tree. Margaret Hilditch seemed to him more wonderful than ever in her
white serge boating clothes. Lady Cynthia, who had apparently just
arrived from some function in town, was still wearing muslin and a large
hat.

"I am always afraid that Mr. Ledsam will have forgotten m