He had always suspected that Brodie was aware of the affection which had nearly resulted in their engagement. Hence, he had entertained no desire to meet him. Strange, indeed, that he should so persistently seek him, just at the most critical moment in his life. "Well," he laughed at last, tearing up the letter and tossing it into the fire, "I've never met the fellow in all my life, and I don't see why I should put myself out to do so now. The brute treated May badly, infernally badly. If we met I couldn't be civil to the cad." He had loved May--the daughter of a retired colonel--in the days after he and Claudia had drifted apart, he to indulge his cynicism, she to marry Dick Nevill. But his love for her was not that passionate worship of the ideal which had marked his affection for the charming little friend of his youth. It was a mere midsummer madness, the pleasant memory of which lingered always in his mind. He thought over it all, and smiled bitterly when he recollected the past. Presently Parsons brought him a cup of black coffee. It was a habit of his, acquired abroad, to take it each morning in bed. When the old servitor, true to his clock-work precision, entered with the tiny Nankin cup upon the tray, Dudley was astonished. "What? Eight o'clock already?" he exclaimed, starting up. "Yes, Master Dudley," the old man replied. "Aren't you going to bed, sir?" "No. Well--at least, I don't know, Parsons," said the Under-Secretary. "I have several early appointments." At that moment the electric bell in the hall rang sharply, and the old man went out to answer the summons. "There's a gentleman, Master Dudley," was Parson's announcement. "He wishes to see you at once very particularly. He will give no card." "Well, show him in," his master answered with every sign of reluctance, swallowing his coffee at a gulp. As his doom was fixed, what did it matter who called upon him now? He smiled bitterly. Parsons disappeared for a moment. A few seconds later the heavy portico was drawn aside, and there stood before Dudley the tall, rather well-dressed, figure of a man, who halted upon the threshold without uttering a word. "You!" gasped Chisholm, springing from his chair. "You! Archibald Cator!" "Yes," answered the other gravely, closing the door behind him. "We have met before, and, doubtless, you know my errand." "I do," groaned the despairing man. "Alas! I do." "The truth is out, Mr. Chisholm!" exclaimed his visitor, in slow, deep tones. "Our inquiries are complete, and there has been discovered against you evidence so plain as to be altogether indisputable. There need be no ceremony between us. You, esteemed by the world, and held in high honour by the Government, are both a traitor and a murderer. Do you deny it?" There was a silence, deep and painful. "No, I do not," was the low, harsh rejoinder of the wretched man, who had sunk back into his chair with his chin upon his breast.