Without another word Rupert lit the gas again. The little old lady turned her bird-like head as we all stumbled forward in the strong gaslight. Then, with a quickness that almost made me jump, she sprang up and swept a sort of old-fashioned curtsey or reverence. I looked quickly at Greenwood and Burrows, to whom it was natural to suppose this subservience had been offered. I felt irritated at what was implied in this subservience, and desired to see the faces of the tyrants as they received it. To my surprise they did not seem to have seen it at all: Burrows was paring his nails with a small penknife. Greenwood was at the back of the group and had hardly entered the room. And then an amazing fact became apparent. It was Basil Grant who stood foremost of the group, the golden gaslight lighting up his strong face and figure. His face wore an expression indescribably conscious, with the suspicion of a very grave smile. His head was slightly bent with a restrained bow. It was he who had acknowledged the lady's obeisance. And it was he, beyond any shadow of reasonable doubt, to whom it had really been directed. “So I hear,” he said, in a kindly yet somehow formal voice, “I hear, madam, that my friends have been trying to rescue you. But without success.” “No one, naturally, knows my faults better than you,” answered the lady with a high colour. “But you have not found me guilty of treachery.” “I willingly attest it, madam,” replied Basil, in the same level tones, “and the fact is that I am so much gratified with your exhibition of loyalty that I permit myself the pleasure of exercising some very large discretionary powers. You would not leave this room at the request of these gentlemen. But you know that you can safely leave it at mine.” The captive made another reverence. “I have never complained of your injustice,” she said. “I need scarcely say what I think of your generosity.” And before our staring eyes could blink she had passed out of the room, Basil holding the door open for her. He turned to Greenwood with a relapse into joviality. “This will be a relief to you,” he said. “Yes, it will,” replied that immovable young gentleman with a face like a sphinx. We found ourselves outside in the dark blue night, shaken and dazed as if we had fallen into it from some high tower. “Basil,” said Rupert at last, in a weak voice, “I always thought you were my brother. But are you a man? I mean--are you only a man?” “At present,” replied Basil, “my mere humanity is proved by one of the most unmistakable symbols--hunger. We are too late for the theatre in Sloane Square. But we are not too late for the restaurant. Here comes the green omnibus!” and he had leaped on it before we could speak. ------------------------------------------------------------------------