nelled in
white with an old-rose carpet, rendering it essentially bright and
modern.

The tall, grey-bearded, elegant man handed me a box of Perfectos Finos,
from which we selected, and then, throwing myself into a chair, I slowly
lit up.

His back was turned from me at the moment, as he leaned over the
writing-table apparently gathering up some papers which he did not desire
that I should see. He was facing a circular mirror on the wall, and in it
I could see his countenance reflected. The expression upon his
face--cold, cynical, sinister--startled me. He placed the papers in a
drawer and locked it with a key upon his chain.

"Well?" I asked. "Why all this confounded mystery, Digby?"

He turned upon me quickly, his long face usually so full of merriment,
grey and drawn. I saw instantly that something very serious was amiss.

"I--I want to ask your advice, Royle," he replied in a hard voice scarce
above a whisper. Walking to the pretty rug of old-rose and pale green
silk spread before the fire he stood upon it, facing me. "And--well,
truth to tell, I don't want it to be known that you've been here
to-night, old fellow."

"Why?"

"For certain private reasons--very strong reasons."

"As you wish, my dear chap," was my response, as I drew at his perfect
cigar.

Then he looked me straight in the face and said: "My motive in asking you
here to-night, Royle, is to beg of you to extend your valued friendship
to me at a moment which is the greatest crisis of my career. The fact is,
I've played the game of life falsely, and the truth must out,
unless--unless you will consent to save me."

"I don't follow you," I said, staring at him. "What in heaven's name do
you mean?"

"My dear boy, I'll put my cards down on the table at once," he said in a
slow, deep tone. "Let's see--we've known each other for nearly a year.
You have been my best friend, entirely devoted to my interests--a staunch
friend, better than whom no man could ever desire. In return I've lied to
you, led you to believe that I am what I am not. Why? Because--well, I
suppose I'm no different to any other man--or woman for the matter of
that--I have a skeleton in my cupboard--a grim skeleton, my dear Royle.
One which I've always striven to hide--until to-night," he added with
emotion.

"But that hardly interferes with our friendship, does it? We all of us
have our private affairs, both of business and of heart," I said.

"The heart," he echoed bitterly