would take you to that part of the
house. This is the drawing-room, sir, if you'll be pleased to walk in,
and I'll fetch you your hat and stick from the studio."

I had no objections to make to this suggested course, though I was
conscious of a vague desire to return to the octagon room.

The butler noiselessly preceded me, turning up the lights, which had
been dim, and touching a match to four or five candles on the
mantelpiece. I saw then that I was in a large, old-fashioned
drawing-room, with plenty of ancient blue and white china, Sheraton
furniture, and a fireplace suggesting a design of Adams'.

I sat down beside it to finish my time of waiting, not quite sure
whether to be crestfallen over having made an unnecessary sensation, or
to be distrustful of the butler, with his shifty face. I scarcely heard
his decorous footsteps, as he moved away over the polished oak floor of
the great hall, but he had not been gone more than a moment or two, when
the sound of voices whispering together reached my ears.

I had always particularly sensitive ones, and no doubt my somewhat
precarious, wandering life had done much to sharpen them. At all events,
I was able to hear that which did not reach the ears of other men less
favoured in this regard, and now I caught a word or two spoken outside
in the hall.

"In the drawing-room ... 'tisn't he, after all ... confound your
stupidity! ... fool you are.... Well, it can't be helped now ... story
will have to do."

An instant later Mr. Carson Wildred had appeared at the door. I got up
as he showed himself, and advanced towards him, keenly watching his
face. It had been alert at first, as though he were anxious to ascertain
who the visitor could be; then, as he identified me, for the fraction of
a second a fire of fierce anger blazed in his pale eyes. Before I could
more than convince myself that it had actually been there, however, it
was gone. He came towards me, smiling cordially, and holding out his
hand.

"How do you do, Mr. Stanton?" he said. "This is an unexpected pleasure,
after your refusal of our invitation last night, but none the less
delightful. I suppose I'm rather late in wishing you a merry Christmas?
But better late than never, you know!"

"Thank you," I returned, grudging the necessity for taking the man's
hand. It was cold as ice, and he remarked upon it, laughing.

"Rather a chilly welcome that," he exclaimed; "but I've just come in
from a walk, and we've v