‘As I supposed,’ he went on, after glancing at the contents of the packet. ‘A summons from my father to attend his deathbed—in which last, by the way, I don’t for an instant believe. Brownlow, what am I to do?’ ‘What but obey?’ ‘To be told, when I get there, either that he has been miraculously restored to health, or that he has changed his mind; in either case that he no longer wishes to see me, and so—practically—have the door slammed in my face? No, I tell you these repeated visits to Bath become a farce, and an impertinent one at that. My father persistently sends for me and as persistently refuses to receive me when I come. Last time I swore, if he sent any more, he would send in vain. Why should I let him make me a laughing-stock, and treat me with less consideration than one of his own valets? Why cannot he be reasonably civil to me? It is intolerable, not to be borne. But his mind—such mind as he ever possessed, no great thing from the first as far as I can discover—has been poisoned against me for years by the gang of hypocrites and toadies which surrounds him. Only just now’—Hartover spread out his hands passionately, his face flushed, his eyes filling with tears—‘think, Brownlow, think how can I leave London? How can I endure the suspense of absence when—when’⸺ For a moment I feared he would give way to one of those fits of ungovernable anger before which I had trembled at Hover of old. But, to my great relief, he mastered himself, after a while growing gentle and composed. ‘You are right, dear old man, as usual,’ he said at last. ‘I will go. Then at least my conscience as a model son will be clear, whatever his lordship’s as a tender father may, or may not, be.’ And so it was settled he should start at cock-crow, leaving me to deal with the unlovely business of Mademoiselle Fédore—an arrangement I found far from unwelcome, since it secured me greater freedom of action than I could have hoped for otherwise. CHAPTER XXXVI. Left to myself, next morning, I sought out Detective Inspector Lavender—a large, fair, pink-faced, grey-eyed man, with a soothing voice and fatherly smile, as unlike the human sleuth-hound of melodrama and fiction as could well be. Before making my fateful call upon Fédore it would be very desirable, I felt, to learn whether he had any fresh news for me and shape my course accordingly. He greeted me with— ‘Well, sir, you are the gentleman of all others I was wishing to see. My fellow officers are a bit jealous sometimes of what they are pleased to call Lavender’s luck—and my luck is uncommonly to the fore, I must say, this morning.’ I inquired why. ‘Because this little man-hunting job of yours and mine seems on the tip of success. A word from you may settle it.’ I inquired how. ‘Well, sir, could you undertake to identify this Mr. Marsigli if you saw him?’ I answered that I believed I undoubtedly could.