Lord Archibald put down the decanter and the glass. The muscles of his face quivered as if he was about to be afflicted by an attack of St. Vitus' Dance. "If anybody but you had spoken to me like that, at the very least he should never speak to me again." The only effect which his visitor's fury had on Mr. Townsend was to make him still more scornful. "Don't gas to me, my good fellow. Reserve that sort of thing for some other of your acquaintance. I regret that you should have rendered it necessary for me to remind you that you are under a considerable obligation to me, and I regret still more that you should have compelled me to ask if it is your intention to fulfil that obligation. I believe that even Scotchmen do occasionally fulfil their obligations." His listener's face was a sickly yellow. Rage had made him calm. "Mr. Townsend, be so good as to tell me who this woman is." Thus requested, Mr. Townsend, scribbling something on a scrap of paper, tossed the scrap of paper across the table to his guest. "There is her name and her address. I took you with me once to call on her. Probably you remember the occasion and the lady. Your business with her must be transacted before five o'clock this afternoon. If you are a quarter of an hour after that time you may as well postpone the fulfilment of your obligation to a future day. For my purpose you will be too late." The other scanned what was written on the scrap of paper. He folded the paper up; he placed it in his waistcoat-pocket. "You shall have the literal letter of your bond. Afterwards, Mr. Townsend, I will deal with you." Without another word Lord Archibald Beaupré left the room. Left to himself, Mr. Townsend threw the end of his cigarette into the fire. Thrusting his hands into his trouser-pockets, stretching out his legs in front of him, he stared at the flame and he smiled--not pleasantly. "What a fool the fellow is! I have had about as much of him as I can stand. Indeed, I have had more. I hope they'll hang him. It will be a happy despatch. Or perhaps, after he has done the deed, he will turn, as a relief, to suicide. It's just the sort of thing he would do." Something tickled him. He laughed. "What a game of touch and go I'm playing." He stood up. "To think that he should have supposed that I meant Dora. My Dora!" A panel photograph was on the mantelboard. It was the portrait of a young girl. Mr. Townsend apostrophised it as if it had been a living thing. "My darling! If you had only come into my life before, how different it might all have been! If fortune had but let you come my way, evil should not have been my good. There is the making of a man in me, somewhere, that I swear. If I could but get out of it all and shake myself free and begin again, I'd quickly prove it." Taking the photograph into his hand, he kissed it. It was strange how tender his voice had suddenly become.