“It must be a grim sensation,” he admitted, “but I am afraid with you, my dear Walter, it is an affair of shop. You wish to cull from your interesting employer the material for that every-becoming novel of yours. Let’s go upstairs! I’ve time for one pool.” “I haven’t,” Aynesworth answered. “I’ve a commission to do.” He left the club and walked westwards, humming softly to himself, but thinking all the time intently. His errand disturbed him. He was to be the means of bringing together again these two people who had played the principal parts in Lovell’s drama--his new employer and the woman who had ruined his life. What was the object of it? What manner of vengeance did he mean to deal out to her? Lovell’s words of premonition returned to him just then with curious insistence--he was so certain that Wingrave’s reappearance would lead to tragical happenings. Aynesworth himself never doubted it. His brief interview with the man into whose service he had almost forced himself had impressed him wonderfully. Yet, what weapon was there, save the crude one of physical force, with which Wingrave could strike? He rang the bell at No. 13, Cadogan Street, and sent in his card by the footman. The man accepted it doubtfully. “Her ladyship has only just got up from luncheon, sir, and she is not receiving this afternoon,” he announced. Aynesworth took back his card, and scribbled upon it the name of the newspaper for which he still occasionally worked. “Her ladyship will perhaps see me,” he said, handing the card back to the man. “It is a matter of business. I will not detain her for more than a few minutes.” The man returned presently, and ushered him into a small sitting room. “Her ladyship will be quite half an hour before she can see you, sir,” he said. “I will wait,” Aynesworth answered, taking up a paper. The time passed slowly. At last, the door was opened. A woman, in a plain but exquisitely fitting black gown, entered. From Lovell’s description, Aynesworth recognized her at once, and yet, for a moment, he hesitated to believe that this was the woman whom he had come to see. The years had indeed left her untouched. Her figure was slight, almost girlish; her complexion as smooth, and her coloring, faint though it was, as delicate and natural as a child’s. Her eyes were unusually large, and the lashes which shielded them heavy. It was when she looked at him that Aynesworth began to understand. She carried his card in her hand, and glanced at it as he bowed. “You are the Daily Scribbler,” she said. “You want me to tell you about my bazaar, I suppose.” “I am attached to the Daily Scribbler, Lady Ruth Barrington,” Aynesworth answered; “but my business this afternoon has nothing to do with the paper. I have called with a message from--an old friend of yours.” She raised her eyebrows ever so slightly. The graciousness of her manner was perceptibly abated. “Indeed! I scarcely understand you, Mr.--Aynesworth.”