During the two or three days he had spent in London on his arrival from India he had neither been repelled nor attracted by the smooth-spoken gentleman who had taken him in tow. Beyond the brief discussion necessary to the elaboration of their arrangements Nugent had been far too wary to indulge in useless harping on the scheme in hand. It was not his cue to emphasize the heartless villainy of their compact. Indeed, he dismissed the moral aspect of the affair in a slurred and utterly mendacious justification, hinting that Violet Maynard had only herself to thank for having played fast and loose with the Maharajah. He even suggested that she had been really partial to the handsome Oriental, and would speedily become reconciled. The black business being thus by mutual consent relegated to the background, Nugent had laid himself out to be a pleasant host without allowing it to be seen that he was making a minute study of the young man upon whom his own bribe would so largely depend. Leslie had not thought very much about him, except as one of the figures in what seemed more like a bad dream than reality. But now all that was changed, and the personality of Bhagwan Singh's English wire-puller had for him a sinister significance. He had no doubt that the Cockney Jew Levison was acting in collusion with the more cultured scoundrel, and he wondered how the latter would take his revolt. Not kindly, that was fairly certain; but Leslie could not see how Nugent could injure him beyond inflicting the cunningly-provided punishment of financial ruin which he was powerless to resist. He could not expose the conspiracy without confessing his own part in it, and he felt that he would cheerfully prefer death to so abasing himself in Violet's eyes. At present his intention was to bask in the sunshine of fictitious happiness for one more day and then vanish to South America, New Zealand--anywhere where a pair of strong arms could provide him with bread. The opportunity for revolt was on him sooner than he expected. When they reached the Manor House Mr. Maynard was at the hall door in the act of welcoming Nugent, who had arrived in his car, entering the park by the north lodge. The brilliant man-about-town turned to the ladies with effusion, receiving a courteous greeting from Violet and a sniff from Aunt Sarah, who, however, as she passed into the hall deigned to fling back at him: "You are as full of mischief as a ripe cheese is of maggots. I am going to take your opinion on a piece of mischief presently." Mr. Maynard, a stout, florid man of sixty, gave a great guffaw. "The old girl always had her knife into you, Nugent," he roared, "but, like all the rest of 'em, she can't do without you. Maggots in cheese! Lord love me, what'll she say next." He turned away to direct the chauffeur to the stable-yard, and Chermside drew Nugent aside, saying, in a rapid whisper-- "I am not going on with the damned thing!"