calls the blacks--his form of blues. But he's very talented. Carey is
his name--Rupert Carey. You don't happen to know him?"

"No. If I may say so, your room is charming."

They were on the first floor now, in a chamber rather barely furnished
and hung with blue-grey linen, against which were fastened several old
Italian pictures in black frames. On the floor were some Eastern rugs in
which faded and originally pale colours mingled. A log fire was burning
on an open hearth, at right angles to which stood an immense sofa with a
square back. This sofa was covered with dull blue stuff. Opposite to
it was a large and low armchair, also covered in blue. A Steinway grand
piano stood out in the middle of the room. It was open and there were
no ornaments or photographs upon it. Its shining dark case reflected the
flames which sprang up from the logs. Several dwarf bookcases of black
wood were filled with volumes, some in exquisite bindings, some paper
covered. On the top of the bookcases stood four dragon china vases
filled with carnations of various colours. Electric lights burned just
under the ceiling, but they were hidden from sight. In an angle of the
wall, on a black ebony pedestal, stood an extremely beautiful marble
statuette of a nude girl holding a fan. Under this, on a plaque, was
written, "_Une Danseuse de Tunisie_."

Sir Donald went up to it, and stood before it for two or three minutes
in silence.

"I see indeed you do care for beauty," he said at length. "But--forgive
me--that fan makes that statuette wicked."

"Yes, but a thousand times more charming. Carey said just the same thing
when he saw it. I wonder I wonder what Lady Holme would say."

They sat down on the sofa by the wood fire.

"Carey could probably tell us!" Pierce added.

"Oh, then your friend knows Lady Holme?"

"He did once. I believe he isn't allowed to now. Ah, here is Carey!"

A quick step was audible on the stairs, the door was opened, and a
broad, middle-sized young man, with red hair, a huge red moustache
and fierce red-brown eyes, entered swiftly with an air of ruthless
determination.

"I came, but I shall be devilish bad company to-night," he said at once,
looking at Sir Donald.

"We'll cheer you up. Let me introduce you to Sir Donald Ulford--Mr.
Rupert Carey."

Carey shook Sir Donald by the hand.

"Glad to meet you," he said abruptly. "I've carried your Persian
poems round the world with me. They lay in my trunk cheek by