“Sir Timothy?” a rather hoarse, strained voice asked. “I am speaking,” Sir Timothy replied. “Who is it?” The man at the other end spoke as though he were out of breath. Nevertheless, what he said was distinct enough. “I am John Walter.” “Well?” “I am just ringing you up,” the voice went on, “to give you what's called a sporting chance. There's a boat from Southampton midday tomorrow. If you're wise, you'll catch it. Or better still, get off on your own yacht. They carry a wireless now, these big steamers. Don't give a criminal much of a chance, does it?” “I am to understand, then,” Sir Timothy said calmly, “that you have laid your information?” “I've parted with it and serve you right,” was the bitter reply. “I'm not saying that you're not a brave man, Sir Timothy, but there's such a thing as being foolhardy, and that's what you are. I wasn't asking you for half your fortune, nor even a dab of it, but if your life wasn't worth a few hundred pounds--you, with all that money--well, it wasn't worth saving. So now you know. I've spent ninepence to give you a chance to hop it, because I met a gent who has been good to me. I've had a good dinner and I feel merciful. So there you are.” “Do I gather,” Sir Timothy asked, in a perfectly level tone, “that the deed is already done?” “It's already done and done thoroughly,” was the uncompromising answer. “I'm not ringing up to ask you to change your mind. If you were to offer me five thousand now, or ten, I couldn't stop the bally thing. You've a sporting chance of getting away if you start at once. That's all there is to it.” “You have nothing more to say?” “Nothing! Only I wish to God I'd never stepped into that Mayfair agency. I wish I'd never gone to Mrs. Hilditch's as a temporary butler. I wish I'd never seen any one of you! That's all. You can go to Hell which way you like, only, if you take my advice, you'll go by the way of South America. The scaffold isn't every man's fancy.” There was a burr of the instrument and then silence. Sir Timothy carefully replaced the receiver, paused on his way out of the room to smell a great bowl of lavender, and passed back into the garden. “More applicants for invitations?” Lady Cynthia enquired lazily. Her host smiled. “Not exactly! Although,” he added, “as a matter of fact my party would have been perhaps a little more complete with the presence of the person to whom I have been speaking.” Lady Cynthia pointed to the stream, down which the punt was slowly drifting. The moon had gone behind a cloud, and Francis' figure, as he stood there, was undefined and ghostly. A thought seemed to flash into her mind. She leaned forward. “Once,” she said, “he told me that he was your enemy.”