“Hello, Pyne,” he said quietly. “Anything wrong—or have you just looked in for a smoke?” Sir Lucien smiled a trifle sadly. “I wanted a chat, Gray,” he replied. “I’m leaving town tomorrow, or I should not have intruded at such an unearthly hour.” “No intrusion,” muttered Gray; “try the armchair, no, the big one. It’s more comfortable.” He raised his voice: “Willis, bring some fluid!” Sir Lucien sat down, and from the pocket of his dinner jacket took out a plain brown packet of cigarettes and selected one. “Here,” said Gray, “have a cigar!” “No, thanks,” replied Pyne. “I rarely smoke anything but these.” “Never seen that kind of packet before,” declared Gray. “What brand are they?” “No particular brand. They are imported from Buenos Ayres, I believe.” Willis having brought in a tray of refreshments and departed again, Sir Lucien came at once to the point. “I really called, Gray,” he said, “to clear up any misunderstanding there may be in regard to Rita Irvin.” Quentin Gray looked up suddenly when he heard Rita’s name, and: “What misunderstanding?” he asked. “Regarding the nature of my friendship with her,” answered Sir Lucien coolly. “Now, I am going to speak quite bluntly, Gray, because I like Rita and I respect her. I also like and respect Monte Irvin; and I don’t want you, or anybody else, to think that Rita and I are, or ever have been, anything more than pals. I have known her long enough to have learned that she sails straight, and has always sailed straight. Now—listen, Gray, please. You embarrassed me tonight, old chap, and you embarrassed Rita. It was unnecessary.” He paused, and then added slowly: “She is as sacred to me, Gray, as she is to you—and we are both friends of Monte Irvin.” For a moment Quentin Gray’s fiery temper flickered up, as his heightened color showed, but the coolness of the older and cleverer man prevailed. Gray laughed, stood up, and held out his hand. “You’re right, Pyne!” he said. “But she’s damn pretty!” He uttered a loud sigh. “If only she were not married!” Sir Lucien gripped the outstretched hand, but his answering smile had much pathos in it. “If only she were not, Gray,” he echoed. He took his departure shortly afterwards, absently leaving a brown packet of cigarettes upon the table. It was an accident. Yet there were few, when the truth respecting Sir Lucien Pyne became known, who did not believe it to have been a deliberate act, designed to lure Quentin Gray into the path of the poppy. CHAPTER XXII. THE STRANGLE-HOLD