ured.

"It would have made no difference," she interrupted dolefully. "Now I
come to think of it, the Margaret whom I used to know--and there must be
plenty of her left yet--is just the right type of woman for you."

They drew up outside the house in Grosvenor Square. Lady Cynthia held
out her hand.

"Come and see me one afternoon, will you?" she invited.

"I'd like to very much," he replied.

She lingered on the steps and waved her hand to him--a graceful,
somewhat insolent gesture.

"All the same, I think I shall do my best to make you forget Margaret,"
she called out. "Thanks for the lift up. A bientot!"

CHAPTER XX

Francis drove direct from Grosvenor Square to his chambers in the
Temple, and found Shopland, his friend from Scotland Yard, awaiting his
arrival.

"Any news?" Francis enquired.

"Nothing definite, I am sorry, to say," was the other's reluctant
admission.

Francis hung up his hat, threw himself into his easy-chair and lit a
cigarette.

"The lad's brother is one of my oldest friends, Shopland," he said. "He
is naturally in a state of great distress."

The detective scratched his chin thoughtfully.

"I said 'nothing definite' just now, sir," he observed. "As a rule,
I never mention suspicions, but with you it is a different matter. I
haven't discovered the slightest trace of Mr. Reginald Wilmore, or
the slightest reason for his disappearance. He seems to have been a
well-conducted young gentleman, a little extravagant, perhaps, but able
to pay his way and with nothing whatever against him. Nothing whatever,
that is to say, except one almost insignificant thing."

"And that?"

"A slight tendency towards bad company, sir. I have heard of his being
about with one or two whom we are keeping our eye upon."

"Bobby Fairfax's lot, by any chance?"

Shopland nodded.

"He was with Jacks and Miss Daisy Hyslop, a night or two before he
disappeared. I am not sure that a young man named Morse wasn't of the
party, too."

"What do you make of that lot?" Francis asked curiously. "Are they
gamesters, dope fiends, or simply vicious?"

The detective was silent. He was gazing intently at his rather
square-toed shoes.

"There are rumours, sir," he said, presently, "of things going on in the
West End which want looking into very badly--very badly indeed. You will
remember speaking to me of Sir Timothy Brast?"

"I remember quite well," Francis acknowledged.

"I've nothing to go on," the o