Fayre was astonished at the depth of feeling in his voice, but he realized that Kean meant what he said and that he would fight for Leslie as he had never fought before. What would happen if he failed, Fayre did not dare contemplate. He was convinced now that, for some reason he could not fathom, the lines of Leslie’s fate were inextricably intermingled with those of Sybil and Edward Kean and he had a grim conviction that more than Kean’s professional reputation was at stake should he fail to get an acquittal. He sat through the long interview between Kean and Cynthia like a man in a dream and his report of their conversation, had he been called upon to make one, would have been both vague and garbled. It was only at the close, when Kean offered to drive her back to her aunt’s house, that he woke to a sense of his surroundings and managed to rouse himself to action. “If you are going to steal Cynthia I’ll be off,” he said pleasantly. “I’ve one or two things I must do on the way home.” They were so absorbed that they hardly noticed his departure; but if Kean had happened to glance out of the window, he would no doubt have wondered why Fayre, instead of going directly about his business, had chosen to waste fifteen minutes or so in desultory chat with the chauffeur of Kean’s car. His talk finished, he hailed a taxi and drove to the club. Arrived there he went straight to his room and looked up the address Gregg had given him when he suggested that he should look up his chemist friend, Lloyd. Then, from the bottom of his portmanteau, he unearthed a pile of old photographs, adding to them the snapshot he had borrowed from Miss Allen. Thrusting them into his pocket he ran downstairs and got into the waiting taxi, giving the driver Lloyd’s address. He found him at home, an unkempt little man with a face not unlike that of an abnormally intelligent monkey, surmounted by a shock of untidy grey hair. Evidently he had been expecting to hear from Fayre and showed no surprise at his visit. His manner was business-like and a trifle brusque. He impressed Fayre as a man who had little time to give to the affairs of others, but who invariably bent his whole mind to the matter in hand, whatever it might be. “I can’t do much for you,” he began frankly. “Never have known who the chap was that I saw with Mrs. Draycott in Paris and I don’t suppose I ever shall, unless I run into him somewhere. And that’s unlikely, as I never go anywhere if I can help it. Beastly waste of time. Hate society. Tepid tea and a lot of silly talk about nothing. Better ask me what you want to know. Quicker and more satisfactory.” He ran his hand through his untidy hair and, sitting perched on the edge of his littered writing-table, blinked at Fayre expectantly through his strong glasses. “If you’d give me an account of what happened in Paris I should be grateful,” suggested Fayre. “I’m a bit vague as to dates, for instance.”