"I wonder," Major Elstree said reflectively, "what must be the state of mind of a man who has gone through a trial lasting four or five days, and suddenly realizes that it is over and finished, and that he has lost. This poor fellow, for instance. When he woke up this morning, he perhaps hoped to be free to-night,--things went altogether his way yesterday. And instead of being free, he has been taken back to his cell, and knows--even at this minute he is realizing--that he will never leave it again until he leaves it to die. Personally," he continued, "I think that the period of time between the pronouncement of a sentence and its execution ought to be swept away. I cannot imagine anything more horrible, especially to a man who has to spend the long nights alone with that one thought racking his brain!" Lady Olive laid down her fork. "My dear Harry," she declared, "do be a little more considerate. How are we to enjoy our luncheon if we think of that poor man?" Major Elstree bowed across the table. "I forgot," he said. "Let us enjoy our luncheon, by all means. At the same time, I am going to drink my first glass of wine to a reprieve. We won't discuss the question of whether he deserves it or not. We will talk instead, if you like, of directoire gowns, and Flying Star's chance for the gold cup. But--I drink my toast." "You are very quiet, Stirling," Lady Olive murmured to the man who sat by her side. Deane smiled at her. "I am afraid that sometimes when I come away from a maze of figures, my brain, or at any rate my tongue, is not so nimble as it should be. I'll keep pace with you all presently." A frock-coated, white-waistcoated _maître d'hôtel_ came smiling up and addressed him confidentially. "Mr. Deane," he said, "you are wanted for a moment upon the telephone." "You are sure that it is I who am wanted?" Deane asked, a little doubtfully. "Quite sure, sir," the man replied. "The inquiry was for Mr. Stirling Deane." Deane rose to his feet. "You will excuse me?" he begged, turning to his guests. "I suppose they have found out at the office that I am here, and they have probably something to say to me." Nevertheless, as he left the room and crossed the hall Deane was conscious of feeling more than a little puzzled. He was quite certain that he had not told a soul at the office of the Incorporated Gold-Mines Association, over which he presided, that he was lunching at the Carlton. He was equally certain that he had not told anyone else. He took up the receiver of the instrument with some curiosity. "Who is it?" he asked. "Who are you?" was the reply. "I am Stirling Deane," Deane said. "Who are you, and what do you want with me? Is it the office?" "No!" was the reply, in a voice wholly unfamiliar to him. "It is not the office, Mr. Deane. It is someone with news for you." "News?" Deane repeated. "I should like to know who you are first, and to hear your news afterwards."