"Louis, the
head-waiter, is the judge, and the position allotted in the room
is the sentence. I wonder who is going to have the little table
next but one to us. Some favoured person, evidently."
Francis glanced in the direction indicated without curiosity.
The table in question was laid for two and was distinguished by a
wonderful cluster of red roses.
"Why is it," the novelist continued speculatively, "that,
whenever we take another man's wife out, we think it necessary to
order red roses?"
"And why is it," Francis queried, a little grimly, "that a dear
fellow like you, Andrew, believes it his duty to talk of trifles
for his pal's sake, when all the time he is thinking of something
else? I know you're dying to talk about the Hilditch case,
aren't you? Well, go ahead."
"I'm only interested in this last development," Wilmore
confessed. "Of course, I read the newspaper reports. To tell
you the truth, for a murder trial it seemed to me to rather lack
colour."
"It was a very simple and straightforward case," Francis said
slowly. "Oliver Hilditch is the principal partner in an American
financial company which has recently opened offices in the West
End. He seems to have arrived in England about two years ago, to
have taken a house in Hill Street, and to have spent a great deal
of money.
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