He drove back to his chambers in a rather exhilarated frame of mind. Lady Mary was very charming. He had quite got over that first feeling that he was to be exploited for the benefit of the Rossett family. Mary had put that all right, in her gentle, persuasive way. She had expressly laid emphasis on the fact that she, at any rate, was pleased to welcome him for himself. He dismissed his taxi, and climbed up the steep stairs to his suite of rooms in one of the most cloistered courts of the Temple. To his surprise, the light in the hall was burning. What had happened? He went into the dining-room, a blaze of electric light. Stretched on the sofa, puffing at a long cigar, was Andres Moreno, awaiting his arrival. "The devil!" cried Farquhar shortly, sharply, and decisively. Moreno waved a genial hand. "Not exactly, old man, but one of his ambassadors. I say, I suppose you can give me a shake-down." "Of course, but why are you here? Why are you not in Spain?" "All will be unfolded in good time, my boy. But what about a drink? I could do with one." "You know where the things are. Surely you could have helped yourself?" said Farquhar. "Never care to drink alone, old man. By the way, I see you are in evening togs. Have you been dining with the aristocracy?" "You've just hit it," replied Farquhar, as he went to the sideboard and fetched out a decanter of whiskey. "I have been dining in Belgrave Square with the Earl of Saxham and his daughter. Lady Mary Rossett." "Good heavens, this might be called a coincidence," cried Moreno, as he drained the refreshing draught offered to him. Farquhar was rather impatient at any exhibition of humour. He frowned a little. "Now, Moreno, out with it. What has brought you here? I am delighted to see you, of course, but you have not come all this long journey for nothing." But Moreno was still in high spirits that were not to be abruptly quenched. "What a splendid Lord Chancellor you will make, always with both eyes on the practical, intolerant of anything that disturbs the even course of justice. Perfect embodiment of the legal mind. _A votre sante, mon ami_!" He drained his glass. Farquhar looked at him critically. "You're a bit of an ass to-night, aren't you?" "Not at all, most noble Festus. Never was I saner than I am at the present hour. Well, perhaps just at the moment I am suffering a little from swollen head. I, the poor Fleet Street journalist--you remember, Farquhar, how they used to despise me in the early days--have outwitted the keenest brains of the anarchists. I have made abortive their great _coup_." "I know," said Farquhar generously. "My hearty congratulations, old man. But still, you have not come all this way to tell me that. You have something behind." Moreno's manner changed at once. He sat down in an easy chair and became the solemn and grave personage who had important interests at stake.