"Do you mean to say that you are
the father of--of Oliver Hilditch's wife?"
"Widow," the other corrected gently. "I have that honour. You
will understand, therefore, that I feel myself on this, the first
opportunity, compelled to tender my sincere thanks for evidence
so chivalrously offered, so flawlessly truthful."
Francis was a man accustomed to self-control, but he clenched his
hands so that his finger nails dug into his flesh. He was filled
with an insane and unreasoning resentment against this man whose
words were biting into his conscience. Nevertheless, he kept his
tone level.
"I do not desire your gratitude," he said, "nor, if you will
permit me to say so, your further acquaintance."
The stranger shook his head regretfully.
"You are wrong," he protested. "We were bound, in any case, to
know one another. Shall I tell you why? You have just declared
yourself anxious to set your heel upon the criminals of the
world. I have the distinction of being perhaps the most famous
patron of that maligned class now living--and my neck is at your
service."
"You appear to me," Francis said suavely, "to be a buffoon."
It might have been fancy, but Francis could have sworn that he
saw the glitter of a sovereign malevolence in the other's dark
eyes. If so, it was but a passing weakness, for a moment later
the half good-natured, half cynical smile was back again upon the
man's lips.
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