"I know that you mean to be kind," she continued, "and I fear that I must seem very ungrateful. Believe me, I am not. I am simply faced with one of those terrible problems which must be solved, and yet which admit of no help from any living person." Crawshay's attitude had grown perceptibly stiffer. "I am very sorry indeed, Miss Beverley," he said, "that you cannot give me your confidence. I am very sorry for my own sake, and I am sorry for yours." "Is that a threat?" she asked. "You know the old proverb," he answered, as he bowed over her fingers. "'Those who are not on my side are against me.'" "You are going to treat me as an enemy?" "Until you prove yourself to be a friend." CHAPTER XIX At a quarter to eight that evening, a young man who had made fitful appearances in the lounge of Claridge's Restaurant during the last half-hour went to the telephone and rang up a certain West End number. "Are these Mr. Crawshay's rooms?" he asked. "Mr. Crawshay speaking," was the reply. "Brightman there?" Crawshay turned away from the telephone and handed the receiver to the detective. "What news, Henshaw?" the latter enquired. "Miss Beverley dines at her usual table, sir, at eight o'clock," was the reply. "The table is set for three." "For three?" Brightman exclaimed. "For three?" Crawshay echoed, turning from the sideboard, where he had been in the act of mixing some cocktails. "You are quite sure the third place isn't a mistake?" Brightman asked. "Quite sure, sir," was the prompt reply. "I am acquainted with one of the head waiters here, and I understand that two gentlemen are expected." "Anything else?" "Nothing, sir. Miss Beverley sent away two parcels this afternoon, which were searched downstairs. They were quite unimportant." "I shall expect to hear from you again," Brightman directed, "within half an hour. If the third person is a stranger, try and find out his name." "I'll manage that all right, Mr. Brightman. The young lady has just come down. I'll be getting back into the lounge." Brightman turned around to Crawshay, who was in the act of shaking the cocktails. "A third party," he observed. "Interesting," Crawshay declared, "very interesting! Perhaps the intermediary. It might possibly be Doctor Gant, though." The detective shook his head. "Three quarters of an hour ago," he said, "Doctor Gant went into Gatti's for a chop. He was quite alone and in morning clothes." Crawshay poured the amber-coloured liquid which he had been shaking into a frosted glass, handed it to his companion and filled one for himself. "Here's hell to Jocelyn Thew, anyway!" he exclaimed, with a note of real feeling in his tone. "If I thought," Brightman declared, "that drinking that toast would bring him any nearer to it, I should become a confirmed drunkard. As it is, sir--my congratulations! A very excellent mixture!" He set down his glass empty and Crawshay turned away to light a cigarette.