It was Cranbourne, who at the door of the flat thought of a final precaution, excused himself to his companions and asked leave to enter the bathroom. Richard was standing on a cork mat, rubbing himself with a Turkish towel and, after the fashion of all good men, singing lustily in time with the exercise. He favoured Cranbourne with a grin as he materialized through the wreaths of steam.

"Hello, back again!"

Cranbourne nodded and cast an appreciative eye over the well articulated muscles of the stripped figure before him.

"Just one thing," he said, "if you don't mind."

"Fire away."

Cranbourne produced a notebook and a pencil.

"Scribble your signature on this bit of paper."

"I see. My writing. Here you are."

Richard took the pencil and book and sitting on the edge of the bath—and without thinking—dashed off his own signature. When he had finished he handed it to Cranbourne who shook his head sadly over the result.

"No good?"

"'Fraid not. It was hardly to be expected. Whatever you do, don't write."

"I won't."

Cranbourne glanced at the page again.

"This is your real name, I suppose."

Richard started, hesitated a bit, then nodded.

"There was a Frencham Altar mixed up in that Patagonian business."

"My father. Went broke and shot himself, you know."

"I remember. Left you on the rocks, so to speak."

"Yes, and wedged there good and hard. You see he aimed at my being a gentleman and nothing else—never was taught how to earn a living. That's why I'm cutting rather a deplorable figure now."

"I can't agree," said Cranbourne generously. "I think your father realised his ambition. Goodnight."

"Night-oh!"

At the door Cranbourne paused.

"I'm almost ashamed of having dragged you into this business," said he.

"Don't you fret, my dear fellar. I'm delighted. I've been spending that five thousand in imagination ever since I heard of it. Think I'll emigrate in the fine style."

"Hm!" he paused. "Altar! I shouldn't really tell you this, but you're likely to be kidnapped tonight."

"What?"

"I thought you might like to know."

"Thanks very much."

"That's all."

"Hang on a minute. Do you want me to defend myself? I'm pretty useful with my hands or a gun either for that matter."

"It would help us if you did nothing at all—except comply."

Richard's face fell for he loved a good mix up.

"Oh, very well, if you say so."

"Thank you," said Cranbourne. "The best of luck, old chap."

"You bet."

Cranbourne went out and a moment later the front door slammed.

Then Richard began to laugh.

"Kidnapped, eh! What a game. Doran!" The last word rang out imperatively.

"Sir," came the reply.

"Have I got any clothes?"

"In the bedroom, sir."

"Righto." He put his feet into a pair of slippers, donned a bath gown and shuffled into the adjoining room. At the door he paused to survey the appointments.

"I think this is a nice bedroom of mine, don't you?"

Doran signified assent with a smile.

"Very nice flat altogether. What sort of taste have I in the matter of clothes?"

"Pretty good, sir. I've laid out a blue cheviot."

"Aha! And an M.C.C. tie. Shan't wear that."

"No, sir."

"I'm not a member."

"But in the circumstances, sir."

"P'raps you're right. A sound taste in shirtings, I see."

"Rather a strong feature with us, sir."

Richard whistled cheerfully as he dressed himself. The clothes fitted him astonishingly well—even the collars were right to a quarter size. In the intervals between whistling solos he put questions on a hundred matters.

"Am I a fairly decent sort of chap, Doran?"

The question received a frowning affirmative.

"Splendid! You stick up for me."

The rattle of enquiry proceeded. How much did he drink? How long had
he had the flat? What were his clubs—games—favourite restaurants?
What was his telephone number? Did he smoke to excess—go out much?
Was he fond of reading? Had he got a profession?

"Ah! and this is important. What about money?"

"There's seven pound ten in that note case, sir."

Richard verified the statement.

"Suppose I want more?"

"There's about two hundred in the second drawer of the bureau, sir."

"That's the sort of bureau for me. And I can get some food here?"

"I shall look after that, sir."

"First rate. Everything seems snug and in order. Let's take a look round the flat."

They inspected every corner, with the exception of the wine cellar, paused for a moment in the hall to try on hats and finished up in the dining room where Doran presented him with a bunch of keys, explaining their various uses.

Richard dropped into a saddle bag chair and smiled expansively upon a friendly world.

"A very pleasant finish to the day," he remarked luxuriously. "If you'd mix me one small drink and put the cigarettes in reach, I'll bother you no more tonight."

Doran was moving toward the decanter when a low knock sounded at the front door. He stopped, raised his head, listened, and stood quite still. The knock was repeated.

"Better find out who it is," Richard suggested.

"Yes, sir," said Doran, but made no move.

"What's the matter? You look worried."

Doran admitted that he was worried—very worried.

"But good heavens, why? Tough looking chap—ought to be able to look after yourself."

"I can, sir, but I was forbidden to do so. And I was wondering if it's to be a bar of lead or a sponge of chloroform."

"Oh, rats," Richard laughed, "you go and find out."

"Very well, sir."

Doran took a grip on himself and marched out.

"And now," said Richard to himself, "I suppose the fun is going to begin."

He lit a cigarette and waited. It was quite a long time before the door opened and a woman came quickly into the room. And she was lovely. She had a mass of black hair swept clear of the brow. Her eyes were black, large and luminous. She was unnaturally white but her lips were scarlet. It was a beautiful mouth, shapely, sensuous, sensitive, but with a hint of strength. Her brows very straight and as thin almost as pencil lines. She wore a flame-coloured evening dress—'Tout feu' as a ladies' journal would describe it—and a cloak of smoke colour which fell from one shoulder and double draped the other. There was nothing ordinary in the appearance of Auriole Craven. She attacked the eye and held it captive. A woman would have declared her to be overdressed—outre—almost demi mondaine—would have denounced the white face and the red curled lips—would have criticised the uncanny knack of falling instantaneously into attitudes of flowing lines. But to a man the subject of these criticisms was matter for appreciation. By her very daring she stirred a spirit of adventure. Richard checked a gasp of admiration—of surprise—rose to his feet and bowed, but other than by settling her eyes upon him the girl gave no sign of recognition. Clearly it was up to someone to make a move, wherefore Richard politely offered her "good evening."

"Is that all you have to say?" came the answer.

"Of course not," he laughed, "but I make a point of saying that first.
Do sit down, won't you?"

She occupied the offered chair and looked up at him.

"At least I thought you'd be surprised," she said. "Still it doesn't matter."

"P'raps I am," he admitted reluctantly, "but my surprise was drowned in a very natural pleasure."

"Pleasure?"

"It was awfully nice of you to look in like this. Been to a theatre or something?"

"No."

"No?"

"I came to talk."

"Fine! We—we've every facility."

"Yes." Her head was slightly raised and she seemed to be listening.
"Yes."

"I didn't hear anything, did you?" said Richard gaily.

"No. Nothing." But again she raised her head.

"I say, are you sure you're all right?" he asked.

"Yes, perfectly."

"'Cause if I can get you anything——"

"You can hardly expect me to be normal," she retorted with a flash of bitterness.

It was difficult to know what to say, so he nodded understandingly. An inspiration suggested the offer of a cigarette, but she shook her head.

"I prefer my own," she said, and drew a gold case from her bag. "Try one."

He took the case and she nodded toward it.

"I still carry your gifts."

Richard turned it over and read the inscription "Auriole Craven from A.B." It was a stroke of luck to get her name without asking. He smiled and handed it back with the words,

"Ungallant of me to expose your identity and conceal my own behind initials."

Auriole laughed shortly.

"Perhaps A. B. guessed that a day might come when his name engraved on a present to another woman would be a mistake."

"Give him a chance," said Richard. "He hasn't all that subtlety."

"Men change their views very readily, Tony."

"Only men?" he countered.

She jerked the reply at him over her uncovered shoulder.

"My being here, you mean? My having joined the other side?"

This was a grateful piece of intelligence but Richard preserved a stern expression.

"Since you suggest it yourself——" he admitted.

"Do you hate me for doing it?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Not at all. I'm sure your reasons were adequate."

"They were. Still I thought you'd be surprised."

It was clearly evident that some sort of emotion would have to be expressed. Richard passed a hand across his forehead and walked to the fireplace.

"My dear Auriole," he said, "did I ever strike you as a man who betrayed my real feelings?"

"I always knew them," she returned.

"Then you must know how hurt I am—how very hurt—to think that you—well, I mean, it's dreadful—most—er—most dreadful."

"Were you expecting loyalty from me?"

"There are degrees," he replied with a reproachful glance.

"Wonderful," said Auriole. "It's wonderful really." Her voice dropped and she looked him squarely in the eyes. "Tony, you're not really in love with that girl, you know."

He was concealing bewilderment behind the action of mixing a drink, but the statement so startled him that he sent a column of soda water straight into his shoe.

"Look here," he declared, vigorously mopping his sock with a handkerchief. "If you're going to say things like that I simply——"

"You can't love her."

A tinge of scarlet showed upon her white cheeks. Evidently the girl was in earnest. It was useless to flirt with the situation.

"I am not going to attempt to prove it," said Richard very gallantly.

"In fact it's an offence for me to mention her name."

"You haven't—yet," he observed tentatively.

And as she took this to be a challenge, she leaned back in her chair and said "Isabel Irish" with very little charity of inflexion.

"Please!" said Richard—but what he really meant was "Thank you." Inside himself he was thinking "Damn that fellow Doran! Why the blazes didn't he tell me about all these girls."

The sound of Auriole's voice brought him back to the necessity of the moment.

"So sans gene," she was saying, "so innocent—so unworldly. I wonder what her views would be if she learnt you had entertained a lady in your flat at midnight."

"As the lady came uninvited," Richard returned, "I am hardly likely to refer to the matter."

"Suppose I referred to it—advertised the fact. Do you imagine she would marry you then?"

Richard smiled.

"I should say she'd be as likely to marry me then as she is now."

"A girl brought up as she has been?"

"Aha!"

"You're very confident. Tony, there are people watching this flat to-night."

"Dear, dear!"

"People who will talk tomorrow morning."

"What, the chatty-at-breakfast-kind. How dreadful."

"If you wish to stop them, there is only one way."

"Yes—tell me. Always believed they were incurable."

Auriole shut her hands tight and spoke with difficulty.

"Tony, I don't know how real your affections are for this girl, but I know this. If you refuse to answer our questions your chance of marrying her is worth—nothing. Understand? Nothing."

And all at once Richard became serious.

"Will that please you?" he asked.

"Perhaps."

"I don't think so. I don't think it will please you, really."

"What do you mean?"

"You're too good a sort to enjoy spreading rotten fables about people who are in love with one another."

She echoed the words "too good a sort" rather faintly.

"Yes. I suppose you—you're jealous or something—angry because my feelings have changed. I understand that—it's natural, and I don't defend myself, you know. It's natural you should want to hurt me, but aren't you choosing rather a rotten way of doing it, 'cos you're hurting an innocent girl into the bargain. It's way down below your form to side up with these men who are against me—isn't it, now? As a friend, I'd drop out of this deal—clean out—it—it's not up to your standard."

"Why do you say this to me?"

"Because I like you too well to associate you with——"

"You like me?"

"Yes."

"Still?"

"Not still," he answered, truthfully, "but now."

She was silent for a long while, then she shook her head.

"No good, Tony. It wouldn't make any difference if I dropped out. I know it's beastly, but that can't be helped. They mean to have their answer, whatever happens."

"They've come to the wrong house to get it," said Richard and he folded his arms very heroically.

"You refuse to speak?"

"I do."

"Mr. Van Diest would pay you—enormously."

"Course he would."

"Twenty per cent after exploitation and a million down."

It was a staggering proposition, but Richard preserved his calm and remarked humorously:

"I'll take it in copper, please."

Auriole sprang to her feet and put her hands on his shoulders. Her face was lovelier at close range. A faint and delightful perfume came to his nostrils, her eyes burned brightly and the scarlet mouth, with its moist trembling lower lip, was an exquisite invitation. This indeed was a very woman, he thought, a striking contrast to the small and wistful Doreen. With sudden intuition he realised he had but to open his arms and she would enter—willingly, anxiously. An insane desire possessed him to do this thing. She was adorable, desirable, magnificent, and he was certain beyond doubt she loved him. With a catch of the breath he raised his hands and in so doing his glance fell upon the sleeve of the coat he wore. The cloth was of blue Cheviot which reminded him abruptly that he was Richard Frencham Altar masquerading in someone else's clothes, a circumstance which in no way admitted him to the use of short cuts to the affections of their real owner's admirers. It is disappointing to have to acknowledge that someone is violently in love with someone else that you happen to resemble and the reflection sobered him quickly. With an awkward laugh he turned away and repeated:

"Yes, tell him I'll take it in copper."

"Tony!" she said, "Tony, don't fool with it! Don't you, realise how frightfully serious it is? Haven't you any imagination?"

Apparently he did realise—apparently he had some imagination, for he replied:

"I imagine it is much too late for us to be talking here together. I'm going to ring the bell."

"No," she cried.

"My man will get you a cab."

"If you ring you'll be sorry."

"Life is full of regrets," he answered, and pressed the button.

He saw the startled gesture she made to prevent him and simultaneously the hall and the bedroom doors were thrown open and three gentlemen, each levelling a revolver at his head, advanced into the room.