His back was turned from me at the moment, as he leaned over the writing-table apparently gathering up some papers which he did not desire that I should see. He was facing a circular mirror on the wall, and in it I could see his countenance reflected. The expression upon his face--cold, cynical, sinister--startled me. He placed the papers in a drawer and locked it with a key upon his chain. "Well?" I asked. "Why all this confounded mystery, Digby?" He turned upon me quickly, his long face usually so full of merriment, grey and drawn. I saw instantly that something very serious was amiss. "I--I want to ask your advice, Royle," he replied in a hard voice scarce above a whisper. Walking to the pretty rug of old-rose and pale green silk spread before the fire he stood upon it, facing me. "And--well, truth to tell, I don't want it to be known that you've been here to-night, old fellow." "Why?" "For certain private reasons--very strong reasons." "As you wish, my dear chap," was my response, as I drew at his perfect cigar. Then he looked me straight in the face and said: "My motive in asking you here to-night, Royle, is to beg of you to extend your valued friendship to me at a moment which is the greatest crisis of my career. The fact is, I've played the game of life falsely, and the truth must out, unless--unless you will consent to save me." "I don't follow you," I said, staring at him. "What in heaven's name do you mean?" "My dear boy, I'll put my cards down on the table at once," he said in a slow, deep tone. "Let's see--we've known each other for nearly a year. You have been my best friend, entirely devoted to my interests--a staunch friend, better than whom no man could ever desire. In return I've lied to you, led you to believe that I am what I am not. Why? Because--well, I suppose I'm no different to any other man--or woman for the matter of that--I have a skeleton in my cupboard--a grim skeleton, my dear Royle. One which I've always striven to hide--until to-night," he added with emotion. "But that hardly interferes with our friendship, does it? We all of us have our private affairs, both of business and of heart," I said. "The heart," he echoed bitterly. "Ah! yes--the heart. You, my dear boy, are a man of the world. You understand life. You are never narrow-minded--eh?" he asked, advancing a step nearer to me. "I hope not," I said. "At any rate, I've always been your friend, ever since our first meeting on the steamer on the Lake of Garda, last February." The eminent engineer rolled his cigar between his fingers, and calmly contemplated it in silence. Then, quite abruptly, he exclaimed: "Royle, my present misfortune is due to a woman." "Ah!" I sighed. "A woman! Always a woman in such cases! Well?" "Mind you, I don't blame her in the least," he went on quickly, "I--I was hot-tempered, and I miscalculated her power. We quarrelled, and--and she, though so young, refined and pretty, has arisen to crush me." "Anyone I know?"