pon our conversation to-night. He needs an enemy--he
is thirsting for danger. He has found it!"

Wilmore filled his pipe thoughtfully. At the first whiff of tobacco he
began to feel more normal.

"After all, Francis," he said, "aren't we a little overstrung to-night?
Sir Timothy Brast is no adventurer. He is a prince in the city, a
persona grata wherever he chooses to go. He isn't a hanger-on in
Society. He isn't even dependent upon Bohemia for his entertainment.
You can't seriously imagine that a man with his possessions is likely
to risk his life and liberty in becoming the inspiration of a band of
cutthroats?"

Francis smiled. He, too, had lit his pipe and had thrown himself into
his favourite chair. He smiled confidently across at his friend.

"A millionaire with brains," he argued, "is just the one person in the
world likely to weary of all ordinary forms of diversion. I begin to
remember things about him already. Haven't you heard about his wonderful
parties down at The Walled House?"

Wilmore struck the table by his side with his clenched fist.

"By George, that's it!" he exclaimed. "Who hasn't!"

"I remember Baker talking about one last year," Francis continued,
"never any details, but all kinds of mysterious hints--a sort of mixture
between a Roman orgy and a chapter from the 'Arabian Nights'--singers
from Petrograd, dancers from Africa and fighting men from Chicago."

"The fellow's magnificent, at any rate," Wilmore remarked.

His host smoked furiously for a moment.

"That's the worst of these multi-millionaires," he declared. "They think
they can rule the world, traffic in human souls, buy morals, mock at the
law. We shall see!"

"Do you know the thing that I found most interesting about him?" Wilmore
asked.

"His black opals," the other suggested. "You're by the way of being a
collector, aren't you?"

Wilmore shook his head.

"The fact that he is the father of Oliver Hilditch's widow."

Francis sat quite still for a moment. There was a complete change in his
expression. He looked like a man who has received a shock.

"I forgot that," he muttered.

CHAPTER X

Francis met Shopland one morning about a week later, on his way from
Clarges Street to his chambers in the Temple. The detective raised his
hat and would have passed on, but Francis accosted him.

"Any progress, Mr. Shopland?" he enquired.

The detective fingered his small, sandy moustache. He was an
insignificant-lookin