“Go and see him now!” Aynesworth said. “Tell me if you think he wears a mask or whether he is indeed what he seems.” The hall porter entered the room and addressed Aynesworth. “Gentleman called for you, sir,” he announced. “It is Wingrave,” Aynesworth declared. “Come and speak to him!” They descended the stairs together. Outside, Wingrave was leaning back in the corner of an electric brougham, reading the paper. Aynesworth put his head in at the window. “You remember Lovell, Mr. Wingrave?” he said. “We were just talking when your message came up. I’ve brought him down to shake hands with you.” Wingrave folded his paper down at the precise place where he had been reading and extended a very limp hand. His manner betrayed not the slightest interest or pleasure. “How are you, Lovell?” he asked. “Some time since we met!” “A good many years,” Lovell answered. “Finished your campaigning?” Wingrave inquired. “Knocked you about a bit, haven’t they?” “They very nearly finished me,” Lovell admitted. “I shall pick up all right over here, though.” There was a moment’s silence. Lovell’s thoughts had flashed backwards through the years, back to the time when he had sat within a few feet of this man in the crowded court of justice and listened through the painful stillness of that heavy atmosphere, charged with tragedy, to the slow unfolding of the drama of his life. There had been passion enough then in his voice and blazing in his eyes, emotion enough in his twitching features and restless gestures to speak of the fire below. And now, pale and cold, the man who had gripped his fingers then and held on to them like a vise, seemed to find nothing except a slight boredom in this unexpected meeting. “I shall see you again, I hope,” Wingrave remarked at last. “By the bye, if we do meet, I should be glad if you would forget our past acquaintance. Sir Wingrave Seton does not exist any longer. I prefer to be known only as Mr. Wingrave from America.” Lovell nodded. “As you wish, of course,” he answered. “I do not think,” he added, “that you need fear recognition. I myself should have passed you in the street.” Wingrave leaned back in the carriage. “Aynesworth,” he said, “if you are ready, will you get in and tell the man to drive to Cadogan Square? Good night, Mr. Lovell!” Lovell re-entered the club with a queer little smile at his lips. The brougham glided up into the Strand, and turned westwards. “We are going straight to the Barringtons’?” Aynesworth asked. “Yes,” Wingrave answered. “While I think of it, Aynesworth, I wish you to remember this. Both Lady Ruth and her husband seem to think it part of the game to try and make a cat’s paw of you. I am not suggesting that they are likely to succeed, but I do think it possible that one of them may ask you questions concerning certain investments in which I am interested. I rely upon you to give them no information.”