She had only half made up her mind as to the course she should pursue. Mr. Coldwell often twitted her about her luck, but her “luck” was largely a matter of abnormal instinct, and it was in her bones that there was tragedy in the air. Suppose she saw Lady Raytham again, and this time spoke not in parables, but in plain English? It required no particular effort on Leslie’s part, for her moral equipment was free from the faintest tinge of cowardice. She had inquired that morning as to whether Lady Raytham had carried her threat into execution and had written to the chief commissioner, but apparently her ladyship had reconsidered her decision. Had Peter Dawlish told her of the attack which had been made upon him, and which had so surprisingly led him to Mrs. Inglethorne, she would have called at Berkeley Square before then. But Peter had been silent on the subject, and Leslie did not know till the next day of that surprising outrage. She went to her bedroom and changed her dress; she was dining that night with Mr. Coldwell at the Ambassadors, which is sometimes called a night club by the uninitiated, but is in reality the centre of London’s smart life. Over her flimsy gown, which Lucretia never saw without closing her eyes in mental anguish, she put on her heavy fur coat, slipped a pair of rubbers over her shoes, and sent Lucretia down for a taxi. At a quarter past seven she was pressing the visitors’ bell at No. 377 Berkeley Square. The door was opened almost instantly by a footman. “Have you an appointment with her ladyship?” he asked, as he closed the door upon her. “No, she hasn’t an appointment with her ladyship.” Leslie turned in amazement at the sound of a loud, raucous voice. It was Druze, who had come into the hall from a door beneath the stairs. The white face was red and blotchy; his hair untidy; there was a stain on his white shirt front, and when he walked toward her his step was unsteady. He was, in point of fact, rather drunk, and Mr. Druze drunk was an exceedingly different person from Mr. Druze sober. The whole character of the man seemed to have changed. From being a shrinking, rather fearful servitor, he had become a blustering, loud-mouthed bully of a man. “You can get out. Go on! We don’t want you!” He advanced toward her threateningly, but the girl did not move. The second footman had withdrawn to a respectful distance and was looking with frowning amusement at the antics of his chief. “Do you hear what I say? Clear out! We don’t want any spying police girls round here.” It looked as though he would use physical force to eject her, but his hand had hardly been raised when she said something in a low voice--one word. The big white hand went down; the blotchy red went out of his face, and he blinked at her like a man who was trying to swallow something that would not be swallowed. And then, looking up, she saw a resplendent figure at the head of the stairs. It was Lady Raytham. “Come up, please.”