It was a terrible shock to Mrs. Morrice that her carefully-guarded secret should be known to anybody beyond themselves. She tried to take an optimistic view of the situation. Sir George had been wild in his youth like his two brothers, but he was a gentleman by birth and breeding, he would never take advantage of his knowledge. And yet—and yet, why had he taken the trouble to find it all out? It must have required considerable time and patience, and does any man spend the one and exercise the other without some adequate motive? And how was it possible that he should get the information after all these years? When Mrs. Morrice came to this point in her narrative, Lane made no comment. But, recollecting what he had learned from MacKenzie, he guessed how easily the baronet had been able to go about his researches. Sir George was known to be an associate of “crooks” at the present time, crooks of the high-class variety; no doubt he had associated with them for many years past. Even if he had not known Darcy personally, the name would be a familiar one in the criminal world, and everything about him was known to those who belonged to it. It was probable that he had at first embarked upon his researches out of a mere spirit of curiosity, scenting some mystery about Alma Buckley’s connection with the youngster, and being desirous of unravelling it. In doing so, he had stumbled upon a secret of considerable value to an unscrupulous man. Lettice Darcy, the widow of a criminal, had married a wealthy and eminent financier of high standing and integrity, absolutely ignorant of his wife’s past, for it was not to be presumed that any man in his senses would unite himself to a woman with such a record. Such a secret ought to be worth a good deal to him. He was not long in unmasking his batteries. He and Mrs. Morrice had a few common acquaintances at whose houses they had often been guests at the same time. But they had never exchanged a word together. She, knowing who he was, at once identified him as the brother of the man who had figured in that disagreeable incident at the Brinkstone Arms, but he had not appeared to recognize her. She had been rather glad of this, as she was anxious to consign the past, her girlhood included, to oblivion. A week after that disturbing interview with Miss Buckley, she was a guest at an evening function at a well-known house in Piccadilly, with Rosabelle Sheldon; her husband had not accompanied them, he was dining at the club with a brother financier to discuss one of his big schemes. She had just finished chatting with an old acquaintance, and at the moment was standing alone in a corner of one of the big salons, when she saw Sir George approaching her. She felt a slight shiver pass through her as she realized he was seeking her. She remembered that Alma Buckley, who had been frankly in love with him, had spoken of him as a dangerous man, and suggested there was something rather sinister about him.