“There are two reasons,” he went on to say, “why absolute secrecy is necessary; first, for Agar's own sake. He is, of course, in disguise. No one suspects that he is there, and that is his only safeguard in the country where he is. Secondly--but I want your whole attention, please.” “Yes, I am listening.” Seymour Michael leant forward and emphasised his remark by tapping on the table with his gloved finger. “The mission is so extremely dangerous that it comes almost to the same thing.” “What do you mean?” inquired Arthur Agar, whose gentle intellect only compassed subtleties of the drawing-room type. “I mean that Jem Agar is almost as good as a dead man, although he was not killed at Pregalla.” The man who had wept in this same room six weeks before looked up with a gleam of something very like hope in his troubled eyes. Such is the power of love. For Arthur Agar had not been ignorant of the probability that in his step-brother, once dead but now living, he had had a rival. Sister Cecilia had seen to that. “But when shall we know? When will he come back?” inquired he. And Seymour Michael, the subtle, began to see his way more clearly. “Certainly not for six months, probably not for nine.” One may take it that no man is sent into the world a ready-made scoundrel. It all depends upon the circumstances of life. No one is safe right up to the end, and events may combine to make the very best of us into that thing which the world calls a villain. Arthur Agar, all inexperienced, weak, hereditarily handicapped, suddenly found himself on the balance. And the scales were held, not by the hand of Justice, blind and clement, but by Seymour Michael, very open-eyed, with a keen watchfulness for his own purpose; biassed; unscrupulous. It must be admitted that circumstances were against Arthur Agar. “There is nothing to be done,” added Seymour Michael, with a smile which his companion could not be expected to fathom, “but to keep very quiet, and to make the best of your opportunities while you occupy the position of heir.” Arthur smiled in a sickly way. He felt suddenly as if this man could see right through him, and all the while he hated him. Seymour Michael meant “debts”--it was only natural that one of his race should think of money before all things--Arthur's thoughts were fixed on Dora. And guiltily he imagined himself to be detected. “You will be doing no harm to Jem,” said the tempter, with his pleasant laugh. “You are called upon to act the part well for his sake.” “Ye-es, I suppose I am,” answered Arthur. “And I must tell no one?” “Absolutely no one.” Despite his credulous nature, Arthur Agar was singularly suspicious on this occasion. “Are these Jem's own instructions?” he asked. “His own instructions,” replied Seymour Michael callously.