His position was indeed agonizing, and, in the circumstances, a stronger heart might have blanched at the encounter. When Cranley last met Maitland, he had been the guest of that philanthropist, and he had gone from his table to swindle his fellow-revellers. What other things he had done--things in which Maitland was concerned--the reader knows, or at least suspects. But it was not these deeds which troubled Mr. Cranley, for these he knew were undetected. It was that affair of the baccarat which unmanned him. There was nothing for it but to face Maitland and the situation. “Let me introduce you--” said Mrs. St. John Deloraine. “There is no need,” interrupted Maitland. “Mr. Cranley and I have known each other for some time. I don’t think we have met,” he added, looking at Cranley, “since you dined with me at the Olympic, and we are not likely to meet again, I’m afraid; for to-morrow, as I have come to tell Mrs. Si John Deloraine, I go to Paris on business of importance.” Mr. Cranley breathed again; it was obvious that Maitland, living out of the world as he did, and concerned (as Cranley well knew him to be) with private affairs of an urgent character, had never been told of the trouble at the Cockpit, or had, in his absent fashion, never attended to what he might have heard with the hearing of the ear. As to Paris, he had the best reason for guessing why Maitland was bound thither, as he was the secret source of the information on which Maitland proposed to act. At luncheon--which, like the dinner described by the American guest, was “luscious and abundant”--Mr. Cranley was more sparkling than the champagne, and made even Maitland laugh. He recounted little philanthropic misadventures of his own--cases in which he had been humorously misled by the _Captain Wraggs_ of this world, or beguiled by the authors of that polite correspondence--begging letters. When luncheon was over, and when Maitland was obliged, reluctantly, to go (for he liked Mrs. St. John Deloraine’s company very much), Cranley, who had determined to see him out, shook hands in a very cordial way with the Fellow of St. Gatien’s. “And when are we likely to meet again?” he asked. “I really don’t know,” said Maitland. “I have business in Paris, and I cannot say how long I may be detained on the Continent.” “No more can I,” said Mr. Cranley to himself; “but I hope you won’t return in time to bother me with your blundering inquiries, if ever you have the luck to return at all.” But while he said this to himself, to Maitland he only wished a good voyage, and particularly recommended to him a comedy (and a _comédienne_) at the Palais Royal. CHAPTER X.--Traps.