My brother was not much interested. I was glad of the excuse to bury myself in the pages of the Daily Telegraph. Here at last, then, was something definite. The man Delora was not a fraud. He was everything that he professed to be—a wealthy man, without a doubt. I suddenly began to see things differently. What a coward I had been to think of running away! After all, there might be some explanation, even, of that meeting between the girl and Louis.
We finished our breakfast, and my brother hobbled over to the window. For several minutes he remained there, looking out upon the street with the aimless air of a man who scarcely knows what to do with his day.
"What are you thinking of doing, Austen?" he asked me.
"I had no plans," I answered. "Some part of the day I thought I would look up these people—the Deloras."
Ralph nodded and turned to his servant.
"Goreham," he said, "I will have the motor in an hour. Come and dine with me, will you, Austen?" he said, turning to me. "I don't suppose you will go down to Feltham for a day or two."
"I will come, with pleasure," I answered. "Where are you going to motor to?"
Ralph answered a little vaguely. He had some calls to make, and he was not altogether sure. I left him in a few minutes and descended to the street. I turned westward and walked for some little distance, when suddenly I was attracted by the sight of a familiar figure issuing from the door of a large, gray stone house. We came face to face upon the pavement. It was the man whose life I had probably saved only a few hours ago.
He lifted his hat, and his dark eyes sought mine interrogatively.
"You were not, by chance, on the way to call upon me?" he asked.