“Yes. I’ll go and find him. He may have left if I don’t go now.” Seymour hurried away to return an instant later with a very-much dressed young man in a purple suit and a high, shrill voice. He gave Henry a languid finger, said that he wouldn’t mind a drink, and sat down in front of the fire. Seymour began a fresh monologue, the young man (Morrison was his name) drank his whisky with a delicate foreign attitude which Henry greatly admired, said at last that he must be going. It was only then that Henry plucked up courage. “I say—Seymour tells me you’ve just come from Moscow.” “Yes—damned rotten town,” said Morrison, “two years of it—nearly killed me.” “Did you happen to know,” said Henry, “a man there called Mark?” “What! Phil Mark! Think I did!... Everyone knew Phil Mark! Hot stuff, my word!” “I beg your pardon?” said Henry. Mr. Morrison looked at Henry with curiosity, stared into his glass, found that it was empty, rose and brushed his trousers. “Went the pace—had a mistress there for years—a girl out of the ballet. Everyone knew about it—had a kid, but the kid died ... conceited sort o’ feller—no one liked him. Know I didn’t.” “It can’t have been the same man,” said Henry slowly. “No? daresay not,” said Morrison languidly, “name of Philip though. Short square feller, bit fat, black hair; he was in Maddox and Custom’s—made a bit of money they said. He chucked the girl and came to England—here somewhere now I believe....” He looked at Henry and Seymour, found them silent, disliked the stare in Henry’s eyes, saw a speck of dust on his waistcoat, was very serious about this, found the silence unpleasant and broke away— “Well, so long, you fellows.... Must be toddling.” He wandered out, his bent shoulders expressing great contempt for his company. Seymour had watched his young friend’s face. He was, for once, at a loss. He had known what would occur; he had produced Morrison for no other purpose. He had hated Mark since that day at the Trenchard’s house with all the unresting hatred of one whose whole peace of mind depends on the admiration of others. Morrison had told him stories about Mark: he did not, himself, wish to inform Henry, because his own acquaintance with the family and knowledge of Miss Trenchard’s engagement made it difficult, but he had no objection at all to Morrison’s agency. He was frightened now at Henry’s white face and staring eyes. “Did you know this?” Henry said. “’Pon my word, Trenchard—no idea. Morrison was talking the other day about Englishmen in Moscow, and mentioned Mark, I think, but I never connected him. If I’d thought he was coming out with it like that of course I’d have stopped it, but _he_ didn’t know—” “He’s lying.” “Don’t know why he should. He’d no idea your sister was engaged. It’s a bit rotten, isn’t it? I’m awfully sorry—”