There was a smile on Sutton’s face when she finished. “And do you know who this gentleman was?” he asked in glee. “He’s Amber--you’ve never heard of Amber?” She shook her head. “He’s a thief, just a low-down thief--you can jolly well shake your head, Cynthia, but he’s a fellow who gets his living by his wits; he’s been out of gaol exactly a week--that is your Mr. Amber.” “Mr. Amber,” repeated a voice at the door, as a maid admitted the imperturbable subject of the conversation. Amber was in the conventional garb of civilization. His tightly buttoned morning coat was of the newest cut, his linen was of the shiniest. The hat which he held in his hand shone as only a new silk hat can shine, and spotless white was alike the colour of the spats over his varnished shoes and the skin-tight gloves on his hands. He might have stepped out of a fashion-plate, so immaculate was he. He smiled cheerfully at the uncomfortable youth and held out his hand to the girl. “Called in,” he said easily, “passin’ this way: motor ’buses pass the door--very convenient; what I like about London is the accessibility of everywhere to everywhere else--may I put my hat down?--thank you so much. If ever I make a lot of money I shall live in Park Lane; it’s so close to the tube. And how are you?” Sutton muttered an ungracious platitude and made for the door. “One moment, Francis.” The girl had gone red and white by turn, and the hand that traced patterns on the table had trembled a little when Amber came in: now she was very self-possessed, albeit paler than usual. The boy stopped, one hand on the handle of the door, and frowned warningly at his sister. “Mr. Amber,” she said, ignoring the signal, “I think it is only fair to you to repeat something I have just heard.” “I beg of you, Cynthia!” said Sutton angrily. “It has been said, Mr. Amber,” she continued, “that you are--are a bad character.” “My lady,” said Amber, with a grave face, “I am a bad character.” “And--and you have recently been released from prison,” she faltered, avoiding his eyes. “If,” said Amber carefully, “by ‘recent’ you mean nearly a week ago--that also is true.” “I told you,” cried Sutton, with an exultant laugh, and Amber whipped round. “My Democritus, my Abderite,” he said reproachfully, “wherefore rollick? It is not so funny, this prison--_quid rides_ my Sutton?” His eyebrows rose questioningly. Something made the girl look at him. She may have expected to see him shamefaced; instead, she saw only righteous annoyance. “My past misfortune cannot interest you, My Lady,” he said a little sadly, “when, on a memorable night, I faced Janus, at your wish, entering the portals of an establishment to which I would not willingly invite a self-respecting screw--by which I mean the uniformed instrument of fate, the prison warder--I do not remember that you demanded my credentials, nor set me a test piece of respectability to play.” Then he again addressed himself to the boy.