But it had been of no avail. Sir Reginald’s suspicions of Despard had been lulled to rest again. Money talks, and it had successfully lured the elder man into the comfortable belief that things were best left as they were, and that Rupert Dale, having escaped and apparently been forgotten, his memory was best left in oblivion. The clock on the mantelshelf struck the half-hour. Despard closed his books, folded up his papers and put them away. He had realised a tidy little fortune, and for the moment the frown disappeared and he gave a sigh of satisfaction. To-morrow, he decided, he would warn Sir Reginald to sell; but if Marjorie Dale did not come to his rooms that evening in reply to the letter he had sent her, he would let her father be stranded with a few thousand worthless shares, and the old tin mine at Blackthorn Farm as a reminder of his folly. He had warned Marjorie in the letter he had sent her that unless she came to his rooms that evening to hear what he had to say he would ruin her father, ruin him utterly and irretrievably. He crossed the room and opened the door which led into his bedroom. His trunk was packed, everything was ready to start for the Continent at a moment’s notice. It looked now as though that start would be made within twelve hours. For he knew that if Marjorie did not respond to his letter in person, she would either send it to her father or else show it to her lover, Jim, and in that case—in Mr. Despard’s own language—"the fat would be in the fire," and the sooner he got out of the country for a few months’ change of air the better. He knew Marjorie had no fear for herself. Poverty had no terror for her, and she had shown by her loyalty to her brother that she was ready to face disgrace. But he believed that she would come for her father’s sake. Just as the hands of the clock pointed to a quarter to ten there was a knock at the front door. Despard started, and a smile flitted across his thin lips. She had come after all! He closed the bedroom door and glanced round the room. There was a little too much light, so he switched off the hanging lamp. He glanced at himself in the mirror, smoothed his hair and straightened his tie. She had come. He knew, as he noiselessly crossed the hall, that she would not leave his rooms until he had obtained her promise to marry him, or, failing that, until he had obtained a promise more certain of fulfilment. His fingers trembled a little as he turned the Chubb lock and opened the door. The woman standing outside entered quickly. Despard closed the door, and, turning, held out his hand. "I was afraid you were not coming, Marjorie——" "You have made a mistake. I am not Miss Dale. I am Ruby—Ruby Strode." Despard’s teeth met in his lip. He repressed an oath. "You—what do you want with me?" He hesitated a moment, then pulled himself together and opened the sitting-room door. Ruby entered and he followed her. "Won’t you sit down? Have a whisky and soda?"