“You don't mind my having asked Cynthia to lunch with us?” she said. “I really couldn't get rid of the girl. She came in to see me this morning the most aggressively cheerful person I ever knew. I believe that she had an adventure last night. All that she will tell me is that she dined and danced at Claridge's with a party of the dullest people in town.” A tall, familiar figure passed down the vestibule. Lady Cynthia gave a little start, and Francis, who happened to be watching her, was amazed at her expression. “Your father, Margaret!” she pointed out. “I wonder if he is lunching here.” “He told me that he was lunching somewhere with a South American friend--one of his partners, I believe,” Margaret replied. “I expect he is looking for him.” Sir Timothy caught sight of them, hesitated for a moment and came slowly in their direction. “Have you found your friend?” Margaret asked. “The poor fellow is ill in bed,” her father answered. “I was just regretting that I had sent the car away, or I should have gone back to Hatch End.” “Stay and lunch with us,” Lady Cynthia begged, a little impetuously. “I shall be very pleased if you will,” Francis put in. “I'll go and tell the waiter to enlarge my table.” He hurried off. On his way back, a page-boy touched him on the arm. “If you please, sir,” he announced, “you are wanted on the telephone.” “I?” Francis exclaimed. “Some mistake, I should think. Nobody knows that I am here.” “Mr. Ledsam,” the boy said. “This way, sir.” Francis walked down the vestibule to the row of telephone boxes at the further end. The attendant who was standing outside, indicated one of them and motioned the boy to go away. Francis stepped inside. The man followed, closing the door behind him. “I am asking your pardon, sir, for taking a great liberty,” he confessed. “No one wants you on the telephone. I wished to speak to you.” Francis looked at him in surprise. The man was evidently agitated. Somehow or other, his face was vaguely familiar. “Who are you, and what do you want with me?” Francis asked. “I was butler to Mr. Hilditch, sir,” the man replied. “I waited upon you the night you dined there, sir--the night of Mr. Hilditch's death.” “Well?” “I have a revelation to make with regard to that night, sir,” the man went on, “which I should like to place in your hands. It is a very serious matter, and there are reasons why something must be done about it at once. Can I come and see you at your rooms, sir?” Francis studied the man for a moment intently. He was evidently agitated--evidently, too, in very bad health. His furtive manner was against him. On the other hand, that might have arisen from nervousness. “I shall be in at half-past three, number 13 b, Clarges Street,” Francis told him. “I can get off for half-an-hour then, sir,” the man replied. “I shall be very glad to come. I must apologise for having troubled you, sir.”