The car rolled away. People around were
gossiping--rather freely.
"The wife of that man Oliver Hilditch," he heard a woman say,
"the man who was tried for murder, and committed suicide the
night after his acquittal. Why, that can't be much more than
three months ago."
"If you are the daughter of a millionaire," her escort observed,
"you can defy convention."
"Yes, that was Sir Timothy Brast," another man was saying. "He's
supposed to be worth a cool five millions."
"If the truth about him were known," his companion confided,
dropping his voice, "it would cost him all that to keep out of
the Old Bailey. They say that his orgies at Hatch End-- Our
taxi. Come on, Sharpe."
Francis strolled thoughtfully homewards.
CHAPTER XVI
Francis Ledsam was himself again, the lightest-hearted and most
popular member of his club, still a brilliant figure in the
courts, although his appearances there were less frequent, still
devoting the greater portion of his time, to his profession,
although his work in connection with it had become less
spectacular. One morning, at the corner of Clarges Street and
Curzon Street, about three weeks after his visit to the Opera, he
came face to face with Sir Timothy Brast.
"Well, my altruistic peerer into other people's affairs, how goes
it?" the latter enquired pleasantly.
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