Doubtless, according to dramatic ideals, Maltravers should have lit a cigarette and poised himself on the back of a chair with a cool and insolent complacency. He should have smiled, glittered with Mephistophelian cunning, and played his part like the clever egotist that he was. On the contrary, the soldier appeared suspiciously uncomfortable, and betrayed a certain uneasiness that even his military hauteur could not hide. “Really,” he observed with much affectation of surprise, “these are extraordinary remarks, Mr. Strong. You must have been sitting in the sun.” “No, sir, I have been at Callydon.” “Callydon, eh?” “And at St. Aylmers.” “A pretty place enough.” “And at Messrs. Goring’s office in London.” The two men remained some seven paces apart and looked each other over. The soldier, suave and angular, stood with his feet planted wide apart, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his riding-breeches. “I should be much obliged, Mr. Strong,” he observed, “if you would stop speaking in riddles.” “Certainly,” retorted the other. “Am I to understand—” “You are to understand this, sir—I shall have you prosecuted for conspiring to defeat justice.” “A large order, Mr. Strong.” “A damned large order, sir—an order upon which I shall spend fifty thousand pounds with pleasure.” The soldier stared at him, somewhat stupidly, it must be confessed, for one whose wit was usually so nimble. The whole truth was that Maltravers was a coward, not in the mere physical sense, but rather morally and ethically. Like many a selfish and sensual man, he could play the Pistol when his own sleek interests were threatened. His philosophy was Epicurean in the vulgar sense, a philosophy that shirked any overshadowing of its comfort. “So, sir, you consider me a criminal?” “I have my facts.” The soldier seemed amused despite the gravity of the occasion; the elder man’s face was as stubborn as ever. “I doubt very much whether you can prove anything.” “You admit conspiracy.” “Mr. Strong, am I a fool?” A flicker of a smile passed over the master of Saltire’s face. “One of your chief witnesses has confessed to me,” he said. “Who?” “Never mind, sir; keep to the point.” Now it was only by subtle sword-play that such a man as John Strong could be delicately baffled. Maltravers, who now had his temper admirably under control, had adapted himself to the situation with the adroitness of an athlete. He was not fool enough to indulge in sword and buckler work, or to suffer himself to be bullied by an old plutocrat who had both the will and the means to make matters vastly uncomfortable for a gentleman of fashion. It was matador’s work this, to dangle the red rag of a woman’s honor before this bovine and stolid being, and to reserve the steel to consummate his own safety.