“Dear child,” he said, “if I could roll back the years, if from all my deeds of sin, as the world knows sin, I could cancel one, there is nothing in the world would make me happier than to ask you to come with me as my cherished companion to just whatever part of the world you cared for. But I have been playing pitch and toss with fortune all my life, since the great trouble came which changed me so much. Even at this moment, the coin is in the air which may decide my fate.” “You mean?” she ventured. “I mean,” he continued, “that after the event of which we spoke last night, nothing in life has been more than an incident, and I have striven to find distraction by means which none of you--not even you, Lady Cynthia, with all your breadth of outlook and all your craving after new things--would justify.” “Nothing that you may have done troubles me in the least,” she assured him. “I do wish that you could put it all out of your mind and let me help you to make a fresh start.” “I may put the thing itself out of my mind,” he answered sadly, “but the consequences remain.” “There is a consequence which threatens?” she asked. He was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, he had recovered all his courage. “There is the coin in the air of which I spoke,” he replied. “Let us forget it for a moment. Of the minor things I will make you my judge. Ledsam and Margaret are coming to my party to-morrow night. You, too, shall be my guest. Such secrets as lie on the other side of that wall shall be yours. After that, if I survive your judgment of them, and if the coin which I have thrown into the air comes, down to the tune I call--after that--I will remind you of something which happened last night--of something which, if I live for many years, I shall never forget.” She leaned towards him. Her eyes were heavy with longing. Her arms, sweet and white in the dusky twilight, stole hesitatingly out. “Last night was so long ago. Won't you take a later memory?” Once again she lay in his arms, still and content. As they crossed the lawn, an hour or so later, they were confronted by Hedges--who hastened, in fact, to meet them. “You are being asked for on the telephone, sir,” he announced. “It is a trunk call. I have switched it through to the study.” “Any name?” Sir Timothy asked indifferently. The man hesitated. His eyes sought his master's respectfully but charged with meaning. “The person refuses to give his name, sir, but I fancied that I recognised his voice. I think it would be as well for you to speak, sir.” Lady Cynthia sank into a chair. “You shall go and answer your telephone call,” she said, “and leave Hedges to serve me with one of these strange drinks. I believe I see some of my favourite orangeade.” Sir Timothy made his way into the house and into the low, oak-beamed study with its dark furniture and latticed windows. The telephone bell began to ring again as he entered. He took up the receiver.