ill do."

They turned into a cheap cafe, and, finding a secluded table, took their
seats there, Haredale drearily ordering tea, without asking his
companion whether she wanted it or not. It was improbable that Lady Mary
Evershed had patronised such a tea-shop before, but the novelty of the
thing did not interest her in the least. It was only her pride, the
priceless legacy of British womanhood, which enabled her to preserve her
composure--which checked the hot tears that burned in her eyes. For the
mute misery in Haredale's face was more than he could hide. With all his
sang-froid, and all his training to back it, he was hard put to it to
keep up even an appearance of unconcern.

Presently she managed to speak again, biting her lips between every few
words.

"Had you--everything--there, Dick?"

He nodded.

"I was a fool, of course," he said. "I never did have the faintest idea
of business. There are dozens of sound investments--but what's the good
of whining? I have acted as unofficial secretary to Mr. Julius
Rohscheimer for two years, and eaten my pride at every meal. But--I
_cannot_ begin all over again, Mary. I shall have to let him break
me--and clear out."

He dropped his clenched fists upon his knees, and under the little table
a hand crept to his. He grasped it hard and released it.

Mary, with a strained look in her eyes, was drumming gloved fingers on
the table.

"I detest Julius Rohscheimer!" she flashed. "He is a perfect octopus.
Even father fears him--I don't know why."

Haredale smiled grimly.

"But there is _someone_ who could prevent him from ruining your life,
Dick," she continued, glancing down at the table.

She did not look up for a few moments. Then, as Haredale kept silent,
she was forced to do so. His grey eyes were fixed upon her face.

"Severac Bablon? What do you know of him, Mary?"

She grew suddenly pale.

"I only know"--hesitating--"that is, I _think_, he is a man who, however
misguided, has a love of justice."

Haredale watched her.

"He is an up-to-date Claude Duval," he said harshly. "It hurts me,
rather, Mary, to hear you approve of him. Why do you do so? I have
noticed something of this before. Do you forget that this man, for all
the romance and mystery that surround him, still is no more than a
common thief--a criminal?"

Mary's lips tightened.

"He is not," she said, meeting his eyes bravely. "That is a very narrow
view, Dick-"

Then, seeing the pain in the