"Absolutely true." Mrs Hargrave, looking provokingly pretty under her veil, sighed a soft assent to these platitudes. He fancied her arm gave a responsive pressure to his. When he went to bed that night, Moreno was disturbed with remorseful thoughts of Valerie Delmonte. If the Chief of Police had found those bombs in her pocket, it was he who had told that somewhat slow-moving official he would find them there. Then he comforted himself. If he had betrayed Valerie, he had prevented her from hurling to destruction a dozen or more innocent people. His conscience was quite clear. If she had been a very ugly woman, instead of a very pretty one, perhaps his conscience might not have been troubled at all. "I didn't think much of that Chief of Police at first," he murmured drowsily, as he turned on his pillow. "But he seems to have managed it all right. Still, on the whole, I would rather deal with Scotland Yard, or the Surete in Paris." CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. Lord Saxham and his daughter had left Ticehurst Park. They were in their town house in Belgrave Square. They were neither of them very fond of London. The Earl, in his youth and middle age, had experienced all the fleeting joys of the Metropolis. Mary, after the experience of her unfortunate love-affair, had definitely resolved that she would retire into a convent and devote herself to good works as soon as her father died. Belgrave Square was even a little duller than Ticehurst Park. They were in the midst of a crowd that had forgotten them. Lord Saxham was, to put it vulgarly, a back number, and was quite out of the modern whirl. Lady Mary, during her brief season, had fallen head over ears in love with the handsome young Guardsman, and had buried her heart in his grave. The only thing that had drawn them up from the sylvan shades of Ticehurst Park was this--they wanted to be near Greatorex, that they could know what was happening to Guy at first hand. The eldest son of the house. Viscount Ticehurst, dropped in occasionally, and deigned to spare them a few moments of his valuable time. As a matter of fact, at the present moment he was occupied with a particularly pretty chorus-girl, whom he was half inclined to marry. Mary was fond of both her brothers, but she recognised the difference in them. Eric was as weak as water and destitute of brains. He was capable of marrying any chorus-girl on the sly, and then rushing her down home and presenting her as his wife, to the terrible consternation of his poor old father, who thought that people should always marry in their own class. Guy was different--there was just a little bit of common sense in him. He had fallen violently in love with Isobel Clandon--a girl not quite in his own world, from the Earl's point of view--but a sweet and lovable girl, and above all a lady.