Mme. Estelle was at home, and Westerham was immediately shown into a long, low, pretty drawing-room, which gave on to a garden at the back of the house.

Judged, indeed, from Madame's pose, and from the gown she wore, she might have been expecting visitors.

The lights were shaded so that the hard lines on her face were softened, and in the dimness of the pretty room she looked the really beautiful woman she once must have been.

In his generous spirit—though he knew nothing of Madame's past, and practically nothing of her present—his heart was touched by a certain air of loneliness the woman wore, and by the very pleasant smile of greeting which she gave him.

Sir Paul was conscious that Mme. Estelle surveyed him with a certain amount of quiet wonderment. And it came home to him that for the first time for many years he had been shaken out of himself—so badly shaken out of himself that evidently his countenance bore some traces of his unquiet mind.

Madame's words of welcome were, however, quite conventional, and bore no evidence of surprise. “This is a most unexpected pleasure,” she said.

“The pleasure, I assure you,” answered Westerham in the same conventional strain, “is entirely mine. I do not wish in the least to be discourteous, but I have to tell you that I have called on business.”

Madame nodded as if she understood. “Suppose,” she said, in a pleasant voice, “that while we discuss business we drink tea.”

“I shall be more than delighted,” returned Westerham, though he was anxious to get the matter over and go back to the quiet of his room, where he could think without interruption.

So Madame rang the bell, gave her orders, and the tea came in.

It was not till they were alone again and fairly certain of not being interrupted that Westerham went straight to the point.

“Madame,” he said, and his tone was formal—so formal that he paused for a moment to be amused at himself; he might have been a family solicitor about to talk business with a difficult client.

“Whatever they may have been to you,” he continued, “the last few days have meant much to me. Possibly you are aware of how I made Captain Melun's acquaintance.”

Madame pursed up her mouth and smiled. “I can guess,” she said; “but, of course, versions differ.”

Westerham's heart gave a little bound of triumph. After all, this woman was not wholly sunk in admiration of the gallant captain.

“Never mind about the versions,” he said; “we met. Without attempting to make an ex-parte statement, I may say that I practically foisted myself upon Melun. I think I may even go so far as to say that I compelled him to reveal himself to me in his most unpleasant light, and also to introduce to me various of his friends. You will, of course, pardon my including you in that number.”

Making a bow that was half a mock, Madame smiled—not altogether a pleasant smile.

“Les affaires sont les affaires,” said Madame. “Let us be strictly businesslike. Allow me to put the matter as I think you should have put it had you been entirely plain. Do you”—her face grew a little hard again—“blackmail the blackmailer?”

“To be perfectly honest,” said Westerham, “I do.”

Madame nodded her head up and down several times as though she completely understood.

“Now the first of my discoveries,” Westerham continued, “was that Melun had some sort of hold over the Prime Minister, Lord Penshurst.”

Madame started.

“I also discovered that whatever that hold might be, the secret involved his daughter. Then I think by a perfectly reasonable and logical course of argument I came to the conclusion that the secret, however closely it might be guarded, did not reflect one particular kind of dishonour upon Lord Penshurst.”

Madame nodded again. “I presume you mean,” she said—“I am speaking, of course, as a woman of the world—that whatever Lord Penshurst had to be afraid of, he was at least not terrified of any exposure of his morals.”

“Quite so,” agreed Westerham. “More than that; both from his reputation and the little I have seen of him I am sure that he is so honourable a man that he is not guarding any secret that might imperil his family's standing. Indeed, I am convinced that whatever he has to keep to himself it does not include any of the ordinary crimes and offences of men.”

Again Madame nodded.

“Now, Mme. Estelle,” Westerham continued, speaking more sharply than before, “you may or may not be aware that I purchased an insight into Melun's mode of life at the price of a hundred thousand pounds.”

Madame's face went first white and then red.

“That's the first I have heard of it,” she said, and there was an angry quietude in her voice.

“None the less, it is so,” said Westerham. “You know who I am; you know therefore what my resources are. Such a sum is nothing to me.

“Now,” and he raised his voice so that it became loud and very clear, “I will double that sum if you will tell me what the secret is.”

Lying back on her cushions, Madame stared at him with open mouth; then she sat forward and spoke slowly.

“Will you allow me to speak,” she said, “as it were, man to man? Two hundred thousand pounds cannot buy for me that which I desire.”

She laughed harshly.

Mme. Estelle, as though she were far away, said dreamily, and a little wistfully. “Still, I will try.”

She roused herself from her momentary abstraction and shook her head almost fiercely. “I cannot help you because I do not know what the secret is,” she cried.

Westerham looked at her with his cold, bright eyes, and saw that she spoke the truth, and he was amazed.

If she did not know what the secret was, then she could not know the price of it.

Should he tell her the price?

Melun had said nothing to him on that point, but he could clearly see where matters were trending. Money, he understood, would be of little value to Melun compared to a marriage with Kathleen.

He started, and started to such a degree that Madame surveyed him with open suspicion. “Sacrifice,” he said to himself. “Sacrifice.”

“Was that what she meant?”

And then he added to himself: “Oh, Heaven! If that's the sacrifice, then it shall never be.”

Outwardly, however, he only straightened his back and made a formal little bow to the astonished woman on the sofa.

“I believe you, Madame,” he said, “when you declare that you do not know.”

For a few moments he lapsed into silence, debating with himself whether he should drop the bombshell into Madame's camp now, or whether he should keep what, to this woman, would be the coping-stone of Melun's villainy—his intention to marry Kathleen—until such a moment when its dramatic force would turn the scales in his favour.

It required almost superhuman resolution on Westerham's part to hold this second secret to himself. But with an effort he held his lips in silence.

With the silence, too, he suddenly recognised that he had come into possession of a fact that would prove a mighty weapon with which to deal both with Mme. Estelle and with Melun.

Here in truth were wheels within wheels.

He felt strangely softened to this unhappy woman, who was evidently trusting much and being trusted little; and with his pity came a speculation as to what extent Melun was playing fair and square with his other confederates in blackmail.

He realised now that the captain was in a position to play for his own hand, and that neither the financing of Bagley nor the ambitions of Mme. Estelle, nor yet the brutal violence of Crow and his subsidiary hooligans in Limehouse were necessary to his object.

With this conclusion came more complete puzzlement than before.

It was the word “murderess” employed by Kathleen which distressed him most. Facile and swift as his imagination was, he had as yet been unable to build up any theory which could possibly account for the obstinate and desperate manner in which Lord Penshurst and his daughter were guarding their extraordinary secret.

So long, indeed, did Westerham stand in silence, lost in his own thoughts, that it was with a start he realised that Mme. Estelle was gazing at him with wide-open, fearful eyes. He was quick to grasp the necessity of breaking the silence.

And he deliberately chose to bring matters back to a businesslike method by being excessively brutal.

“You will pardon me,” he said, “but I came here expecting to find a liar. I have been agreeably disappointed.”

In the pause which followed the words he coldly watched the woman wince. But the anger which stole across her face convinced him that she had now been speaking the truth.

He held out his hand. Madame rose and took it.

“I am sorry to ask you again,” he said, “but will you once more give me your word of honour as a woman that you do not know what all this mystery is about?”

“I know,” said Mme. Estelle, “that Melun hopes to obtain some advantage from Lord Penshurst; beyond that I know nothing.”

Then suddenly she cast aside her reserve and drew a little closer to him.

“Forgive plain speaking on my part,” she said, “but I am perfectly certain that you are being dragged into some horrible disaster. I will be frank and honest with you. I have been given to understand that the cultivation of your acquaintance will free us—I am speaking now for Captain Melun and myself—from those embarrassments which trouble us so much, but I think—I cannot tell why—that it is unfair you should be drawn into this business.

“You don't know, I am afraid, quite what Melun is capable of. I have seen”—here she shuddered a little and broke off.

“Why will you not listen to me,” she continued presently, “and get clear while there is yet time? There is no reason why your good name should be besmirched; there is no reason”—and she faltered in her speech—“there is no reason why you should lose——”

“No reason,” said Westerham, in an even voice, “why I should lose my life?”

Mme. Estelle gave a little gasping sigh and drew away from him.

“Oh!” she cried, turning away her face, “you are pitilessly logical.”

They were standing thus, Westerham looking at Mme. Estelle with his searching gaze while her face was turned towards the window, when the door opened behind them.

The prim voice of the trim maid said, “Captain Melun.”

Westerham gathered himself together with a laugh. It was rather like the star situation of a highly-coloured melodrama.

“If Mme. Estelle will pardon the phrase,” he said. “Speak of the devil——” He stopped short, shrugged his shoulders, and made a little bow towards Melun.

For his part, the captain was entirely without embarrassment, having been warned by the maid that Westerham was with Madame.

“Quite so,” he said. His look, however, was so vicious that Westerham had some inclination to stay and see that Mme. Estelle did not suffer physically as the result of his call. He reflected, however, that Mme. Estelle was evidently a brave woman and Melun a cowardly man.

It was, therefore, with an easy mind on this score that he stepped forward and held out his hand to Madame.

“Thank you very much,” he said, “for an exceedingly pleasant, agreeable hour. I hope that you will allow me to have the pleasure of calling again.”

Madame bowed and took his hand. Her own was clammy and wet.

To Melun, Westerham only nodded. The more he dealt with this man the more he regarded him as a lackey to be ordered here and there.

“I trust,” he said, and there was an undertone of command in his voice, “that I shall see you at the hotel to-night.”

When he gained the street, Westerham told his chauffeur to go home; he had been cramped by travelling in the car, and had a wish to walk. He stepped out briskly towards St. John's Wood Road.

At the corner between the Red Lion Hotel and the underground station he saw a news-boy yelling for dear life and waving about him a fiery-coloured placard. The wind caught it, and blowing it flat against the lad's knees enabled Westerham to read the contents' bill:—

“Extraordinary Gagging Outrage in the West End.”

There were times when Westerham suffered from the quick intuition of a woman, and at this moment it came home to him that this contents' bill affected himself.

His second thoughts were that his first impression was nonsense, but his third thoughts were that it was foolish to distrust his intuition; crossing the road, he bought a copy of the paper from the news-boy.

So certain was he that he was in some way connected with the gagging outrage, of which he as yet knew nothing, that he opened the paper perfectly prepared for a shock. It was well that he had braced himself, for in heavy type on the main page he read the following:—

“An extraordinary gagging outrage was discovered at about four o'clock this afternoon at No. 17B Bruton Street, Bond Street. The scene was the flat of a Mr. James Robinson, a gentleman who took a suite of these fashionable chambers less than a week ago.

“Mr. Robinson, who, it is understood, has only been in London a short time, and has since his arrival purchased a magnificent motor car, has not been sleeping regularly at his chambers. As a matter of fact, our representative was given to understand that he has been away visiting friends in the country.

“He returned, however, to London at about one o'clock to-day, and having lunched, told his valet to send round for the car which he had not hitherto used. He was heard to instruct the chauffeur to drive along the Hertfordshire Road, upon which it was concluded that he did not intend to return till late. Up to the time of going to press nothing has been heard of him.

“About four o'clock the doorkeeper, having some message to give to Mr. Robinson's valet, went up to the chambers and knocked at the door. Receiving no reply, the man entered by a pass-key, and was astonished to find the whole place in a state of great disorder. Rushing into the dining-room, he discovered that everything had been turned upside down. He then proceeded to the bedroom, where he found Mr. Robinson's valet securely bound hand and foot and his mouth gagged.

“Before summoning the police, the doorkeeper took the gag out of the mouth of Charles Blyth, the valet, and then released his hands and feet.

“Upon the police being summoned, the man, who was suffering considerably from shock, stated that shortly after Mr. Robinson had left there had come a knock at the door. On opening it, he was confronted by a very tall and powerful-looking man, who, he is quite certain, was a gentleman. He was well dressed in a lounge suit and black bowler hat, but, to the valet's surprise and dismay, wore a mask over his face.

“Continuing, the valet says that in less time than it took him to make the statement, the stranger had rushed into the flat and seized his throat in a vice-like grip.

“His assailant then pushed a gag—which apparently consists of a torn pillowcase—into his mouth, and, throwing him to the floor, partially stunned him.

“After this the stranger bound him hand and foot, subsequently lifting him bodily on to the bed, where he left him while he ransacked the rooms from top to bottom.

“As far as can be judged at present, theft was not the motive of the stranger's extraordinary proceedings, for not a single thing is missing from Mr. Robinson's rooms, though every piece of paper has been turned over and every article of clothing evidently searched.

“Presumably the mysterious assailant was looking for some particular object which he expected to be there. Whether he found it or not is open to question, and no further light can be thrown on the matter until Mr. Robinson returns.”

“Mr. Robinson,” said Westerham to himself, “will return at once,” and, hailing a hansom, he directed the man to drive as fast as he could to Bruton Street.

On the way he was rather troubled over the fact that he had called on Mme. Estelle, as it was quite possible that by this time the police had discovered where he had been during the afternoon, unless his chauffeur had been more discreet than usual.

At Bruton Street Westerham found his rooms in much the same condition as the newspaper had described.

The valet, pale and troubled-looking, was seated on a chair in the dining-room, evidently fending off question after question which was being put to him by a couple of men whom, without much effort of imagination, Westerham instantly recognised as detectives.

As he stood on the threshold, the elder and taller of the two men left the valet and approached him.

“You are Mr. Robinson?” he asked.

Westerham nodded.

“My name, sir,” said the big man, “is Inspector Rookley, from Scotland Yard. We were, of course, called in by the police in Vine Street. This is a most mysterious affair.”

“Apparently,” said Westerham, easily. “I have been reading about it in the evening papers.”

“I think it will be better,” said Mr. Rookley, gravely, “if my colleague takes your valet away while I make a few inquiries.”

“I am not at all sure that I desire any inquiries to be made.”

Mr. Rookley was first astounded and then suspicious.

“But, sir,” he protested, “this is a most peculiar case.”

“I agree with you,” said Westerham, “a most peculiar case, a most puzzling case. But, at the same time, I cannot see, in the least, how it concerns you.”

“I am sure, sir,” said Mr. Rookley, with meaning, “that the sooner I remove your valet the better.”

“Just as you please. As I find you in my flat, and as apparently you want to talk, and as, moreover, I have nothing on earth to do, I suppose I had better talk with you. May I offer you a whisky-and-soda?”

“Not now, sir,” said Mr. Rookley severely, and he beckoned to his colleague to take the astonished valet away.

When they were alone, Mr. Rookley turned sharply on Westerham and demanded in a dictatorial voice: “What does it all mean?”

“Now really,” Westerham laughed, “I should have supposed that that was the question I should have asked you. You, Mr. Rookley, of Scotland Yard, as detective, should be more versed in the wicked ways of this life than I am.

“I have my rooms entered by a stranger, who gags my valet, and who subsequently turns all my effects topsy-turvy. You are summoned by the police to catch the offender. When are you going to catch him?”

Mr. Rookley was used to what he himself called “cool hands,” but, as he said afterwards, this was the coolest hand he had ever met.

However, he was equal to the occasion.

“How do you suppose, sir,” he asked, “we are to make an arrest if you don't provide us with some data to go on?”

“Data!” exclaimed Westerham. “Surely there is plenty of data here, and I can tell you nothing more.”

“Now come, sir,” urged the detective, “you must admit that you yourself are rather a peculiar person, and, mind you, sir, we of the Yard are no respecters of persons. You came here a week ago. You apparently dropped from the skies. No one knows who you are, and yet you have plenty of money. You buy a big motor car, you order a lot of new clothes, and then you disappear.”

Westerham nodded. “Quite true,” he said. “Go on.”

“And then,” continued the detective, “you reappear. You order out the car, and scarcely is your back turned before this business happens.

“Now, my opinion is—and probably you know more about it than I do—that the gentleman who went through your things was looking for some special thing. I say a ‘gentleman’ advisedly, for valets of the description that you have got do not make mistakes on that score.

“Of course,” Mr. Rookley droned on, “gentlemen sometimes do wild things. I have known a few in my time. Maybe there was some quarrel about some lady. Maybe you have taken something belonging to some lady which the other gentleman thought you should not have taken. For the moment we really do not suspect anything more serious, though naturally we are making inquiries.”

“I trust they will prove satisfactory,” said Westerham.

“You may rest assured they will, sir,” snapped Mr. Rookley. “We seldom fail. Of course, it is open to us to put what construction we like upon this matter if you do not choose to explain.

“There is the beginning of many big affairs in such a comparative trifle as this. Why not, for your own sake, and for our sakes, tell us all about it?

“I have to warn you that as things stand your position is very awkward. If you refuse to give an explanation of your movements you must expect to be regarded with suspicion—and I assure you that with us it is not a far cry from suspicion to action. In fact, the consequences may be exceedingly serious for you. There is such a thing, you know,” added the detective, adopting a more bullying tone, “as being arrested on suspicion. Come, tell me, where did you sleep last night?”

“My dear man,” said Westerham, suavely, “I have not the slightest intention of telling you.”