The conversation, which had been for a moment interrupted, was soon renewed. I sat silent, listening with ever-increasing admiration to the play of words, the subtle arguments, and the epigrammatic brilliancy of expression which flashed from one to another of the four disputants. Had I known anything of the social or literary life of London I might have been less astonished, for Mr. Ravenor and two of his antagonists, Mr. Justice Haselton and Professor Clumbers, were reckoned among the finest talkers of their day. At last Mr. Ravenor, very much to my regret, brought the conversation to an abrupt close by proposing an exodus to the drawing-rooms. A few of the younger men looked eager to depart, but the majority rose and stretched themselves with the sad faces of martyrs before forming themselves into little groups and quitting the room. Mr. Ravenor remained until the last and motioned me to stay with him. "Well, Philip," he said, when everyone had gone, "how are you getting on at Dr. Randall's? Do you like being there?" "Very much for some things," I answered. He looked at me closely. "There is something you have to tell me," he said. "What is it?" I glanced around at the little army of servants moving noiselessly about on all sides. "There is something," I acknowledged, "but I would rather tell it you when we are quite alone. Besides, it is rather a long story. It has mostly to do with Mr. Marx." The calm, stately serenity of Mr. Ravenor's face underwent a sudden change. His dark brows almost met into his eyes, which I could not read. The change strengthened the impression which had lately been growing upon me. There was some deep mystery connected with the personality of Mr. Marx in which Mr. Ravenor was somehow concerned. "What about Mr. Marx? What can you have to say to me about him?" he asked coldly. "More than I should care to say here," I answered, glancing around. "It is rather a long----" "Come into the library to me the last thing tonight," he said quickly. "I must know what this story is that you have got hold of. We will go into the drawing-room now." In a few moments the cloud had vanished from his face and he was again the polished host. And I, under protest, was inveigled into a corner by Miss Agnes Hamilton, and given my first lesson in the fashionable art of flirting. CHAPTER XXXVII. MR. MARX IS WANTED. It was long past midnight before the last little knots of guests had wished one another good night, and even then Lord Penraven and a few chosen companions only adjourned to a smaller smoking-room in the back regions of the Castle. I knew that Mr. Ravenor was not with them, however, for I had seen him, after having outstayed all save this handful of his guests, cross the hall and enter the library. In about half an hour I followed him.