Seton!... Margaret!" he said, looking from one to the other. "I mean
to say, Margaret, if you've anything to tell me about Rita... Have you?
Have you?"

He fixed his gaze eagerly upon her.

"I have--yes."

Seton prepared to take his leave, but Gray impetuously thrust him back,
immediately turning again to his cousin.

"Perhaps you haven't heard, Margaret," he began. "I have heard what has
happened tonight--to Sir Lucien."

Both men stared at her silently for a moment.

"Seton has been with me all the time," said Gray. "If he will consent to
stay, with your permission, Margaret, I should like him to do so."

"Why, certainly," agreed the girl. "In fact, I shall be glad of his
advice."

Seton inclined his head, and without another word resumed his seat. Gray
was too excited to sit down again. He stood on the tiger-skin rug before
the fender, watching his cousin and smoking furiously.

"Firstly, then," continued Margaret, "please throw that cigarette in the
fire, Quentin."

Gray removed the cigarette from between his lips, and stared at it
dazedly. He looked at the girl, and the clear grey eyes were watching
him with an inscrutable expression.

"Right-o!" he said awkwardly, and tossed the cigarette in the fire. "You
used to smoke like a furnace, Margaret. Is this some new 'cult'?"

"I still smoke a great deal more than is good for me," she confessed,
"but I don't smoke opium."

The effect of these words upon the two men who listened was curious.
Gray turned an angry glance upon the brown packet lying on the table,
and "Faugh!" he exclaimed, and drawing a handkerchief from his sleeve
began disgustedly to wipe his lips. Seton stared hard at the speaker,
tossed his cheroot into the fire, and taking up the packet withdrew a
cigarette and sniffed at it critically. Margaret watched him.

He tore the wrapping off, and tasted a strand of the tobacco.

"Good heavens!" he whispered. "Gray, these things are doped!"

CHAPTER X. SIR LUCIEN'S STUDY WINDOW

Old Bond Street presented a gloomy and deserted prospect to Chief
Inspector Kerry as he turned out of Piccadilly and swung along toward
the premises of Kazmah. He glanced at the names on some of the shop
windows as he passed, and wondered if the furriers, jewelers and other
merchants dealing in costly wares properly appreciated the services of
the Metropolitan Police Force. He thought of the peacefully slumbering
tradesmen in their suburban homes, the safety of