e sound of his voice,
as it analyzed itself in his own ears, seemed unduly peremptory. The
answer which came back brought a flash of wonderment to his eyes. He
hurriedly unlocked and opened the door.

"I saw the lights in what I made out to be the Board Room," said
the newcomer, as he entered. "I assumed it must be you. Hope I don't
interrupt anything."

"Nothing could have given me greater pleasure, Lord Plowden," replied
the other, leading the way back to the inner apartment. "In fact, I
couldn't have asked anything better."

The tone of his voice had a certain anxious note in it not quite
in harmony with this declaration. He turned, under the drop-light
overhanging the Board-table, and shook hands with his guest, as if to
atone for this doubtful accent. "I shake hands with you again," he
said, speaking rapidly, "because this afternoon it was what you may call
formal; it didn't count. And--my God!--you're the man I owe it all to."

"Oh, you mustn't go as far as that--even in the absence of witnesses,"
replied Lord Plowden, lightly. "I'll take off my coat for a few
minutes," he went on, very much at his ease. "It's hot in here. It's by
the merest chance I happened to be detained in the City--and I saw your
lights, and this afternoon we had no opportunity whatever for a quiet
talk. No--I won't drink anything before dinner, but I'll light a cigar.
I want to say to you, Thorpe," he concluded, as he seated himself
"that I think what you've done is very wonderful. The Marquis thinks so
too--but I shouldn't like to swear that he understands much about it."

The implication that the speaker did understand remained in the air
like a tangible object. Thorpe took a chair, and the two men exchanged a
silent, intent look. Their faces, dusky red on the side of the glow from
the fire, pallid where the electric light fell slantwise upon them
from above, had for a moment a mysterious something in common. Then
the tension of the glance was relaxed--and on the instant no two men in
London looked less alike.

Lord Plowden was familiarly spoken of as a handsome man. Thorpe had even
heard him called the handsomest man in England--though this seemed in
all likelihood an exaggeration. But handsome he undoubtedly was--tall
without suggesting the thought of height to the observer, erect yet
graceful, powerfully built, while preserving the effect of
slenderness. His face in repose had the outline of the more youthful
guardsman-type--regu