The woman got up and did likewise. She blew the cigarette smoke through her nostrils, and Jones, as he watched, knew that he detested her. Then she sat down again. She seemed nervous.

"Is it true what I hear, that your sister has left you and gone to live with your mother?"

"Yes," said Jones, remembering the bird woman of yesterday morning.

"Well, you'll have some peace now, unless you let her back--but I haven't come to talk of her. It's just this, I'm in a tight place."

"Oh!"

"A very tight place. I've got to have some money--I've got to have it to-day."

"Oh!"

"Yes. I ought to have had it yesterday, but a deal I had on fell through. You've got to help me, Arthur."

"How much do you want?"

"Fifteen hundred. I'll pay it back soon."

"Fifteen hundred pounds?"

"Yes, of course."

A great white light, cold and clear as the dawn of Truth, began to steal across the mind of Jones. Why had this woman come to him this morning so quickly after the defeat of Voles who held her letters? How had Voles obtained those letters? This question had occurred to him before, and this question seemed to his practical mind pregnant now with possibilities.

"What do you want the money for?" asked he.

"Good heavens, what a question, what does a woman want money for? I want it, that's enough--What else will you ask?"

"What was the deal you expected money from yesterday?"

"A stock exchange business."

"What sort of business?"

She crimsoned with anger.

"I haven't come to talk of that. I came as a friend to ask you for help.

If you refuse, well, there that ends it."

"Oh, no, it doesn't," said he. "I want to ask you a question."

"Well, ask it."

"It's just a simple question."

"Go on."

"You expected to receive fifteen hundred pounds yesterday?"

"I did."

"Did you expect to receive it from Mr. A. S. Voles?"

He saw at once that she was guilty. She half rose from her chair, then she sat down again.

"What on earth do you mean?" she cried.

"You know quite well what I mean," replied he, "you would have had fifteen hundred of Voles' takings on those letters. You heard last night I had refused to part. He was only your agent. There's no use in denying it. He told me all."

Her face had turned terrible, white as death, with the rouge showing on the white.

"It is all untrue," she stuttered. "It is all untrue." She rose staggering. He did not want to pursue the painful business, the pursuit of a woman was not in his line. He went to the door and opened it for her.

"It is all untrue. I'll write to you about this--untrue."

She uttered the words as she pa.s.sed out. He reckoned she knew the way to the hall door, and, shutting the door of the room, he turned to the fire place.

He was not elated. He was shocked. It seemed to him that he had never touched and handled wickedness before, and this was a woman in the highest ranks of life!

She had trapped Rochester into making love to her, and used Voles to extort eight thousand pounds from him on account of his letters.

She had hypnotized Rochester like a fowl. She was that sort. Held the divorce court over him as a threat--could Humanity descend lower? He went to "Who's Who" and turned up the P's till he found the man he wanted.

Plinlimon: 3rd Baron, created 1831, Albert James, b. March 10th 1862. O.

S. of second Baron and Julia d. of J. H. Thompson, of Clifton, m.

Sapphira. d. of Marcus Mulhausen, educ. privately. Address The Roost, t.i.te Street, Chelsea.

Thus spake, "Who's Who."

"I bet my bottom dollar that chap's been in it as well as she," said Jones, referring to Plinlimon, Albert James. Then a flash of humour lit the situation. Voles had returned eight thousand pounds; as an agent he had received twenty five per cent., say, therefore, he stood to lose at least six thousand. This pleased Jones more even than his victory. He had a racial, radical, soul-rooted antipathy to Voles. Not an anger against him, just an antipathy. "Now," said he, as he placed "Who's Who" back on the bureau, "let's get off and see Mortimer Collins."

He left the house, and, calling a taxi cab, ordered the driver to take him to Sergeant's Inn. He had no plan of campaign as regards Collins. He simply wanted to explore and find out about himself. Knowledge to him in his extraordinary position was armour, and he wanted all the armour he could get, fighting, as he was, not only the living present, but also another man's past--and another man's character, or want of character.

CHAPTER XI

THE COAL MINE

Sergeant's Inn lies off Fleet Street, a quiet court surrounded with houses given over to the law. The law has always lived there ever since that time when, as Stow quaintly put it, "There is in and about the city a whole University as it were, of students, practicers, and pleaders, and judges of the laws of this realm, not living of common stipends, as in other universities it is for the most part done, but of their own private maintenance, as being fed either by their places or practices, or otherwise by their proper revenue, or exhibition of parents or friends--of their houses, there be at this day fourteen in all; whereof nine do stand within the liberties of this city, and five in the suburbs thereof."

Sergeant's Inn stood within the liberties, and there to-day it still stands, dusty, sedate, once the abode of judges and sergeants, now the home of solicitors. On the right of entrance lay the offices of Mortimer Collins, an elderly man, quiet, subfusc in hue, tall, spa.r.s.ely bearded, a collector of old prints in his spare hours, and one of the most respected members of his profession.

His practice lay chiefly amongst the n.o.bility and landed gentry, a fact vaguely hinted at by the white or yellow lettering on the tin deed boxes that lined the walls of his offices, setting forth such names and statements as: "The Cave Estate," "Sir Jardine Jardine," "The Blundell Estate," and so forth and so on. He knew everyone, and everything about everyone, and terrible things about some people, and he was to be met with at the best houses. People liked him for himself, and he inspired the trust that comes from liking.