The latter portion of the sentence was addressed to Sutton, who found himself smiling sympathetically. As for Whitey, he was one benign grin. “Now I think that is all,” and Lambaire fluttered a few papers. “Oh, here is a letter from S----” He handed what was in reality a peremptory demand for the payment of the very wine bill to which he referred to Grene. “Tell him I am sorry I cannot go to Cowes with him--I hate strange yachts, and unfortunately,” this to the young man and with a smile of protest, “I cannot afford to keep my yacht as I did a few years ago. Now.” He swung round in his seat as the door closed behind Grene. “Now, Mr. Sutton, I want a straight talk with you; you don’t mind White being here, do you? He’s my confidant in most matters.” “I don’t mind anybody,” said the youth, though he was obviously ill at ease, not knowing exactly what was the object of the interview. Lambaire toyed with a celluloid ruler before he began. “Mr. Sutton,” he said slowly, “you were at school, I think, when your father went to West Africa?” “I was going up to Oxford,” said the boy quickly. Lambaire nodded. “You know I equipped the expedition that had such an unfortunate ending?” “I understood you had something to do with it.” “I had,” said Lambaire; “it cost me--however, that has nothing to do with the matter. Now, Mr. Sutton, I am going to be frank with you. You are under the impression that I sought your acquaintance with some ulterior motive. You need not deny it; I had a--a----” “Hunch,” said the silent Whitey suddenly. “I had what Mr. White calls a ‘hunch’ that this was so. I know human nature very well, Mr. Sutton; and when a man thinks badly of me, I know the fact instinctively.” To be exact, the intuition of Mr. Lambaire had less to do with his prescience than the information Whitey had been able to supply. “Mr. Sutton, I’m not going to deny that I did have an ulterior motive in seeking your society.” Lambaire leant forward, his hands on his knees, and was very earnest. “When your father----” “Poor father,” murmured Whitey. “When your poor father died, a chart of his wanderings, showing the route he took, was sent to you, or rather to your sister, she being the elder. It was only by accident, during the past year, that I heard of the existence of that chart and I wrote to your sister for it.” “As I understand it, Mr. Lambaire,” said Sutton, “you made no attempt to seek us out after my father’s death; though you were in no sense responsible for his fate, my sister felt that you might have troubled yourself to discover what was happening to those who were suddenly orphaned through the expedition.”