“That's just as it happened,” Francis pointed out. “I really didn't care at the time whether he was or not. I had to proceed on the assumption that he was not, of course, but on the other hand I should have fought just as hard for him if I had known him to be guilty.” “And you wouldn't now--to-morrow, say?” “Never again.” “Because of that woman's story?” “Because of the woman.” There was a short silence. Then Wilmore asked a very obvious question. “What sort of a person was she?” Francis Ledsam was several moments before he replied. The question was one which he had been expecting, one which he had already asked himself many times, yet he was unprepared with any definite reply. “I wish I could answer you, Andrew,” his friend confessed. “As a matter of fact, I can't. I can only speak of the impression she left upon me, and you are about the only person breathing to whom I could speak of that.” Wilmore nodded sympathetically. He knew that, man of the world though Francis Ledsam appeared, he was nevertheless a highly imaginative person, something of an idealist as regards women, unwilling as a rule to discuss them, keeping them, in a general way, outside his daily life. “Go ahead, old fellow,” he invited. “You know I understand.” “She left the impression upon me,” Francis continued quietly, “of a woman who had ceased to live. She was young, she was beautiful, she had all the gifts--culture, poise and breeding--but she had ceased to live. We sat with a marble table between us, and a few feet of oil-covered floor. Those few feet, Andrew, were like an impassable gulf. She spoke from the shores of another world. I listened and answered, spoke and listened again. And when she told her story, she went. I can't shake off the effect she had upon me, Andrew. I feel as though I had taken a step to the right or to the left over the edge of the world.” Andrew Wilmore studied his friend thoughtfully. He was full of sympathy and understanding. His one desire at that moment was not to make a mistake. He decided to leave unasked the obvious question. “I know,” he said simply. “Are you dining anywhere?” “I thought of staying on here,” was the indifferent reply. “We won't do anything of the sort,” Wilmore insisted. “There's scarcely a soul in to-night, and the place is too humpy for a man who's been seeing spooks. Get back to your rooms and change. I'll wait here.” “What about you?” “I have some clothes in my locker. Don't be long. And, by-the-bye, which shall it be--Bohemia or Mayfair? I'll telephone for a table. London's so infernally full, these days.” Francis hesitated. “I really don't care,” he confessed. “Now I think of it, I shall be glad to get away from here, though. I don't want any more congratulations on saving Oliver Hilditch's life. Let's go where we are least likely to meet any one we know.” “Respectability and a starched shirt-front, then,” Wilmore decided. “We'll go to Claridge's.” CHAPTER III