e, not any human hand, which had slain Oliver
Hilditch.

"What did your father say when he discovered the truth?" he asked.

"He did not know it until he came to England--on the day that Oliver
Hilditch was acquitted. My husband always pretended that he had a
special mail bag going out to South America, so he took away all the
letters I wrote to my father, and he took care that I received none
except one or two which I know now were forgeries. He had friends
in South America himself who helped him--one a typist in my father's
office, of whom I discovered afterwards--but that really doesn't matter.
He was a wonderful master of deceit."

Francis suddenly took her hands. He had an overwhelming desire to
escape from the miasma of those ugly days, with their train of attendant
thoughts and speculations.

"Let us talk about ourselves," he whispered.

After that, the evening glided away incoherently, with no sustained
conversation, but with an increasing sense of well-being, of soothed
nerves and happiness, flaming seconds of passion, sign-posts of the
wonderful world which lay before them. They sat in the cool silence
until the lights of the returning taxicabs and motor-cars became more
frequent, until the stars crept into the sky and the yellow arc of
the moon stole up over the tops of the houses. Presently they saw Sir
Timothy's Rolls-Royce glide up to the front door below and Sir Timothy
himself enter the house, followed by another man whose appearance was
somehow familiar.

"Your father has changed his mind," Francis observed.

"Perhaps he has called for something," she suggested, "or he may want to
change his clothes before he goes down to the country."

Presently, however, there was a knock at the door. Hedges made his
diffident appearance.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he began, addressing Francis. "Sir Timothy has
been asking if you are still here. He would be very glad if you could
spare him a moment in the library."

Francis rose at once to his feet.

"I was just leaving," he said. "I will look in at the library and see
Sir Timothy on my way out."

CHAPTER XXV

Sir Timothy was standing upon the hearthrug of the very wonderful
apartment which he called his library. By his side, on a black marble
pedestal, stood a small statue by Rodin. Behind him, lit by a shielded
electric light, was a Vandyck, "A Portrait of a Gentleman Unknown," and
Francis, as he hesitated for a moment upon the threshold, wa