Jack Marlowe came back from Denmark hale and hearty, and more than once I was sorely tempted to explain to him the whole situation. Only I feared he would jeer at me as a love-sick idiot. What was the secret held by that grey-faced country parson? Whatever it might be, it was no ordinary one. He had spoken of the seal of The Confessional. What sin had Sylvia Pennington confessed to him? Day after day, as I sat in my den at Wilton Street smoking moodily and thinking, I tried vainly to imagine what cardinal sin she could have committed. My sole thoughts were of her, and my all-consuming eagerness was to meet her again. On the night of the twentieth of June--I remember the date well because the Gold Cup had been run that afternoon--I had come in from supper at the Ritz about a quarter to one, and retired to bed. I suppose I must have turned in about half-an-hour, when the telephone at my bedside rang, and I answered. "Hulloa!" asked a voice. "Is that you, Owen?" "Yes," I replied. "Jack speaking--Jack Marlowe," exclaimed the distant voice. "Is that you, Owen? Your voice sounds different." "So does yours, a bit," I said. "Voices often do on the 'phone. Where are you?" "I'm out in Bayswater--Althorp House, Porchester Terrace," my friend replied. "I'm in a bit of a tight corner. Can you come here? I'm so sorry to trouble you, old man. I wouldn't ask you to turn out at this hour if it weren't imperative." "Certainly I'll come," I said, my curiosity at once aroused. "But what's up?" "Oh, nothing very alarming," he laughed. "Nothing to worry over. I've been playing cards, and lost a bit, that's all. Bring your cheque-book; I want to pay up before I leave. You understand. I know you'll help me, like the good pal you always are." "Why, of course I will, old man," was my prompt reply. "I've got to pay up my debts for the whole week--nearly a thousand. Been infernally unlucky. Never had such vile luck. Have you got it in the bank? I can pay you all right at the end of next week." "Yes," I said, "I can let you have it." "These people know you, and they'll take your cheque, they say." "Right-ho!" I said; "I'll get a taxi and be up with you in half-an-hour." "You're a real good pal, Owen. Remember the address: Althorp House, Porchester Terrace," cried my friend cheerily. "Get here as soon as you can, as I want to get home. So-long." And, after promising to hurry, I hung up the receiver again. Dear old Jack always was a bit reckless. He had a good income allowed him by his father, but was just a little too fond of games of chance. He had been hard hit in February down at Monte Carlo, and I had lent him a few hundreds to tide him over. Yet, by his remarks over the 'phone, I could only gather that he had fallen into the hands of sharpers, who held him up until he paid--no uncommon thing in London. Card-sharpers are generally blackmailers as well, and no doubt these people were bleeding poor Jack to a very considerable tune.