The usual Monday morning movements had kept the hotel in a bustle for some little time, and Herrick’s cab was waiting at the door. There was a motor-car waiting also, and one that the barrister promptly recognised. An impulse led him to return from the hotel steps to the office in the vestibule. Here a lady-clerk with frizzy hair was bending her eyes and her glasses over the visitors’ register. She looked up as he asked his question: Oh yes, she knew; the car belonged to Mr Marcus White, the rich gentleman from Mexico. Suddenly the girl turned scarlet, as she saw that some one was standing by Herrick’s side. “Oh, I beg pardon,” she said confusedly. “Perhaps you are interested in motors?” The enquiry was addressed to Herrick, and the speaker was the man of the New Bailey, the man who had landed at the harbour on the previous morning. The sarcastic intonation, the half contemptuous look, and the quiet way in which the stranger had drawn near, all served to cause embarrassment. Herrick, angry with himself, blurted out a “Yes.” “If you would like to test the speed of mine,” said White, nodding towards the hotel entrance, “I could perhaps give you an opportunity. I return to town to-night.” “Thanks, but I return this morning,” answered Herrick, recovering his self-possession. “Ah! you return to the pursuit of your interesting profession!” “I hope yet to render some service to the cause of law and order,” said Herrick, thinking of a certain letter. “You mean to make hay while the sun shines. Perhaps you are wise.” “Plenty of sunshine at present.” “Yes; but it won’t last,” was the reflective retort. “Prophecy is dangerous.” “Yes, but not so dangerous as the law.” “You mean to the clients?” “On the contrary, I was thinking of the lawyers.” “I’m afraid I can’t stop to argue that.” The younger man lifted his hat--very slightly. Marcus White raised his--with a bow and gesture of such exaggerated respect as almost to constitute an insult. He stood for a moment watching the departure of the other, then turned his gaze upon the puzzled clerk. “Sir John Westwood is staying here?” “Yes, sir.” “Will you send some one up with my card?” “I am afraid----,” began the girl. “You will be good enough to send up this card.” She took the card nervously, but mustered courage for another effort to withstand this masterful man. “Sir John Westwood is ill, sir.” “We are old--acquaintances.” “I’m afraid he can’t see you.” “I shall be waiting here for an answer.” He strolled slowly through the vestibule, with a calm but patient air, which seemed to imply that to him it was the most natural assumption in the world that his behests should be complied with.