"Oh, that was Mr Fairweather," she answered. "Of course he's got simply lashings of money; a thousand guineas is simply nothing to him. You see, he thought it would be quite a good thing if John became reconciled with his father and stopped being stupid, and then he thought that if John was engaged to me — only in a sort of unofficial way, of course — I could make him stop being stupid. So he bet me a thousand-guinea fur coat to see if I could do it. So of course I had to try."
"Did you have any luck?"
She shook her head.
"No. He was terribly obstinate and silly. I wanted him to have a good time and forget all his stupid ideas, but he just wouldn't. Instead of enjoying himself like an ordinary person he'd just sit and talk to me for hours, and sometimes he'd bring along a fellow called Windlay that he lived with, and then they'd both talk to me."
"What did they talk about?"
She spread out her hands in a vague gesture.
"Politics — you know, stupid things. And he used to talk about a thing called the Ring, and Mr Luker, and General Sangore, and even his own father, and say the beastliest things about them. And there were newspapers, and factories, and some people called the Sons of France—"
The Saint was suddenly very rigid.
"What was that again?"
"The Sons of France — or something like that. I don't know what it was all about and I don't care. I know he used to say that he was going to upset everything in a few weeks and make things uncomfortable for everybody, and I used to tell him not to be so damned selfish, because after all what's the point in upsetting everybody? Live and let live is my motto, and I wouldn't interfere with other people's private affairs if they'll leave mine alone."