“I wish you would not call me ‘Gord,’ Diana,” he complained gently. “It sounds--well, blasphemous.” “But oh, it fits,” she said, shaking her head. “You don’t know how it fits!” Gordon shrugged his shoulders. “At any rate, ‘devilish’ is not ladylike.” “Where have you been?” she asked with that disconcerting brusqueness of hers. “I have been detained----” “Not at your office,” said Diana promptly, as she sat down at the table and pointed an accusing finger. “You haven’t been back since luncheon.” Mr. Selsbury cast a resigned look at the ceiling. “I have been detained on a purely private business matter,” he said stiffly. “Dear, dear!” said Diana, unimpressed. Nothing really impressed Diana. She had, she boasted, passed the impressionable age. Gordon had come to admit to himself that she was pretty; in a way she was beautiful. She had blue eyes, willow pattern blue, and a skin like satin. He admitted that her figure was rather lovely. If she had been older or younger, if her hair had not been bobbed--if she had a little more respect for wisdom, an appreciation of thought, a little something of hero-worship! He strolled gloomily to the window and stared blankly into the dusk. Diana was an insoluble problem. Trenter came in at that moment. “Trenter.” “Yes, sir.” The butler crossed to his employer. “Do you see that man on the other side of the road--that red-faced man?” It was the stranger of the skiff. Gordon recognised him at once. “I’ve seen him before to-day ... rather a coincidence.” “Yes, sir,” agreed Trenter. “That’s Mr. Julius Superbus.” Gordon gaped at him. “Julius Superbus--what the devil do you mean?” “Language!” murmured a voice in the background. How like Diana. “What on earth do you mean? That is a Roman name.” Trenter smirked. “Yes, sir. Mr. Superbus is a Roman, the last Roman left in England. He comes from Cæsar Magnus--it’s a little village near Cambridge. I used to be in service there, that’s how I come to know him.” Gordon frowned heavily. By what strange chance had he come to see this oddly named creature twice in one day--at Hampton, rowing a boat with some labour; in Cheynel Gardens, apparently absorbed in the study of a near-by lamp-post? “What is he--by profession?” “A detective, sir,” said Trenter. Gordon went suddenly pale. CHAPTER VI