“Yes, Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson was a great friend of Vera Froissart,” he said at last, “and I don’t suppose any of Vera’s friends was more upset at her sudden death than Mrs. Robertson was. The astonishing delusion you speak of--Froissart’s apparent belief that Mrs. Robertson has some knowledge or suspicion of what brought about the tragedy--is, of course, the result of an unhinged mind. As for my telling you Mrs. Robertson’s private history, though I quite see how you are placed, I consider that to go into a family affair of that sort would, under existing conditions, be a breach of confidence on my part. Also, what bearing could such knowledge have on Mrs. Robertson’s knowing why Vera Froissart ended her life, as she undoubtedly did? Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson is a friend whose acquaintance I made some years ago under rather romantic circumstances, and to you I don’t mind saying that she has made me her rather close confidant. This I can tell you, however--she is a woman who has from first to last met with many misfortunes, and been persistently misunderstood.” For a minute both men were silent. “And is that all you are prepared to tell me about her?” Preston said suddenly, in rather a hard voice. “That is all.” “In that case, La Planta,” Preston bent down to get his stick, “perhaps I had better go.” “Perhaps you had.” The wounded man looked up quickly, as though something in the young man’s tone had stung him, and their eyes met. It was little more than a glance which passed between them, yet the swift transference of thought from each to the other warned Preston to be on his guard against this polite, suave youth who was popularly said to be the most sought after bachelor in London; and in the same way La Planta knew on the instant that before him stood a man who might, under certain conditions, prove a formidable adversary. “Good afternoon,” Captain Preston said, as he put on his hat in the hall. “Good evening,” La Planta replied with frigid courtesy. Then James, who had returned from the telegraph office, opened the door and the captain limped slowly up the Albany towards Vigo Street. By the time Preston reached Regent Street, Archie La Planta had succeeded in getting through on the telephone to Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson, and was telling her what had just occurred. When he stopped speaking, he heard her give a gay little laugh. “Didn’t I say this afternoon,” she exclaimed, “that he was one of the people whose acquaintance I preferred to drop?” CHAPTER IV. THE BRONZE FACE.