His visitor deliberately drew from the inner pocket of his overcoat a big, official-looking envelope, out of which he took several unmounted photographs. These he spread before the man whose brilliant career had thus been so suddenly ended. "Do you recognise these as reproductions of documents handed by you to a certain friend of yours--copies of confidential despatches from Sir Henry Lygon, Her Majesty's Ambassador at Constantinople?" Chisholm, his face livid, nodded in the affirmative. Denials were, he knew, utterly useless. The whole ingenious network of the British Intelligence Department on the Continent had been diligently at work piecing together the evidence against him, and had, under the active direction of that prince of spies, Archibald Cator, at last succeeded in unravelling what had for years remained a profound mystery. His grave-faced, unwelcome visitor, well-satisfied by this admission, next drew a mounted cabinet photograph from his pocket, and, holding it out before his eyes, asked, in a low, distinct voice whether he knew the original. Chisholm's countenance turned ashen grey the instant his haggard eyes fell upon the pictured face. "God!" he cried, wildly starting up, "my God! Cator, spare me that! Hide it from my sight! hide it! I cannot bear it! It's his portrait--_his_!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The clock of St. Anne's, in Wilton Place, had just chimed eleven, and the yellow sun had now succeeded in struggling through the wintry mist. Claudia's carriage with its handsome pair of bays and her powdered footman, with the bearskin rug over his arm, stood awaiting her beneath the dark portico. As, warmly wrapped in her sables, she descended the wide marble staircase slowly, buttoning her glove, Jackson met her. "Mr. Chisholm has just called, m'lady. He has been shown into the morning-room." Her heart gave a quick bound. She dismissed the servant with a nod and walked to the apartment indicated. Dudley turned quickly from the window as she entered, and greeted her, raising her ungloved hand to his lips with infinite courtliness. In an instant, however, she detected the change in him, for his face was blanched to the lips, his voice hoarse and tremulous. "My dear Dudley!" she cried in alarm. "Why, whatever is the matter? You are ill." He closed the door behind her; then, still holding her hand, looked straight into her dark eyes, and said: "I have come to you, Claudia, to bid you farewell--to see you for the last time." "What do you mean?" she gasped, her cheeks turning pale in an instant at his announcement. "I mean that our love must end to-day. That in future, instead of entertaining affection for me, you must hate me, as one guilty and unworthy." "I really don't understand, dear," she answered, bewildered. "You are not yourself to-day."