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"You are the very successful criminal barrister," she continued, "who has just been paid an extravagant fee to defend Oliver Hilditch." "I might take exception to the term 'extravagant'," Ledsam observed drily. "Otherwise, your information appears to be singularly correct. I do not know whether you have heard the verdict.
Last year, for instance, he had those six African girls over from Paris in that queer dance which they wouldn't allow in London at all. This time no one knows what is going to happen. The house, as you know, is absolutely surrounded by that hideous stone wall, and from what I have heard, reporters who try to get in aren't treated too kindly. Here's Ledsam. Very likely he knows more about it."
Francis Ledsam was a little puzzled. Small things meant much to him in life, and he had been looking forward almost with the zest of a schoolboy to that hour of relaxation at his club. He was impatient of even a brief delay, a sentiment which he tried to express in his response. "What do you want to speak to me about?" he repeated bluntly.
Ledsam," he said, after a brief pause, "I have given you almost carte blanche to explore my domains here. Concerning the launch, however, I think that you had better ask no questions at present." "You are using it to-night?" Francis persisted. "Will you come and see, my venturesome guest?" "With great pleasure," was the prompt reply. Sir Timothy glanced at his watch.
There is no need to mention a woman's name, so we will let it go at that." There was a moment's silence a strange, unforgettable moment for Francis Ledsam, who seemed by some curious trick of the imagination to have been carried away into an impossible and grotesque world.
Margaret Hilditch seemed to him more wonderful than ever in her white serge boating clothes. Lady Cynthia, who had apparently just arrived from some function in town, was still wearing muslin and a large hat. "I am always afraid that Mr. Ledsam will have forgotten me," she observed, as she gave him her hand.
The conversation to which I refer took place on the night of young Bidlake's murder, and Mr. Ledsam, with my somewhat, I confess, bombastic words in his memory, has pitched upon me as the bloodthirsty murderer." "Hold on for a moment, sir," Peter Jacks begged, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. "We've got to have another drink quick.
"Francis Ledsam is one of those few rather brilliant persons who have contrived to keep sane without becoming a prig," she remarked. "You know why?" he reminded her. "Francis Ledsam has been a tremendous worker. It is work which keeps a man sane. Brilliancy without the capacity for work drives people to the madhouse." "Where we are all going, I suppose," she sighed. "Not you," he answered.
Margaret Hilditch, her chair pushed back into the recesses of the box, scarcely turned her head at her father's entrance. "I have brought an acquaintance of yours, Margaret," the latter announced, as he hung up his hat. "You remember Mr. Ledsam?" Francis drew a little breath of relief as he bowed over her hand. For the second time her inordinate composure had been assailed.
Francis Ledsam, and his friend the world-famed novelist, Mr. Andrew Wilmore, I er unobtrusively made my way, half a yard at a time, in your direction and here I am. I came stealthily, you may object? Without a doubt. If I had come in any other fashion, I should have disturbed a conversation in which I was much interested."
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