"Is it he?" She started, and laid her hand upon his shoulder for support. She was very much shaken. "Yes. See, he is beckoning. He wants me. I shall go to him. May God give me strength!" She moved forward to cross the road. He caught hold of her arm in sudden fear. "You mustn't think of it," he exclaimed. "You will spoil everything. I want you to come with me to--D--n! Come back, I say; come back! Curse the woman!" He stood on the pavement, fuming. She had glided from his grasp, and his words had fallen upon deaf ears. Already she was half across the road. The door of Sir Allan's house stood open, and a servant was hurrying down to meet her. At that moment Mr. Benjamin Levy felt distinctly ill-used. "D--d old fool!" he muttered to himself angrily. "Hi, hansom, Scotland Yard, and drive like blazes! The game's getting exciting, at any rate," he added. "It was mine easy before that last move; now it's a blessed toss up which way it goes. Well, I'll back my luck. I rather reckon I stand to win still, if Miss Thurwell acts on the square." CHAPTER XL A STRANGE BIRTHDAY PARTY It was close upon midnight, and one of the oldest and most exclusive of West-end clubs was in a state of great bustle and excitement. Sir Allan Beaumerville was giving a supper party to his friends to celebrate his sixtieth birthday, and the guests were all assembled. Sir Allan himself was the last to arrive. The final touches had been given to the brilliantly decorated supper table, and the _chef_, who had done his best for the greatest connoisseur and the most liberal member in the club, had twice looked at his watch. As midnight struck, however, Sir Allan's great black horses turned into Pall Mall, and a few minutes later he was quietly welcoming his guests, and leading the way into the room which had been reserved for the occasion. As a rule men are not quick at noticing one another's looks, but to-night more than one person remarked upon a certain change in their host's appearance. "Beaumerville's getting quite the old man," remarked Lord Lathon, as he helped himself to an ortolan. "Looks jolly white about the gills to-night, doesn't he?" His neighbor, a barrister and wearer of the silk, adjusted his eyeglass and looked down the table. "Gad, he does!" he answered. "Looks as though he's had a shock." "Not at all in his usual form, at any rate," put in Mr. Thurwell, _sotto voce_, from the other side of the table. "Queer thing, but he seems to remind me of some one to-night," Lord Lathon remarked to the Home Secretary, who was on the other side. "Can't remember who it is, though. It's some fellow who's in a devil of a scrape, I know. Who the mischief is it?" "You mean Maddison, don't you?" Sir Philip Roden answered. "Plenty of people have noticed that. There is a likeness, certainly." "By Jove, there is, though!" Lord Lathon assented; "I never noticed it before. I'm devilish sorry for Maddison, Roden, and I hope you won't let them hang him."