"That is another matter entirely," Barmouth explained, "though, of course, it touches on the main issue. You see, that though Anstruther knows me as the James Smith I used to be called in Mexico, he has not the remotest idea that I am Lord Barmouth. In fact, that man blackmails me."
"I don't quite follow," Jack said.
"I admit it sounds a little complicated," Barmouth went on. "As my real self Anstruther does not know me. Why should he interest himself in an apparently broken-down hypochondriac? The man he cares about is 'James Smith,' the Nostalgo whom he regards as a relative of my wife, and who lives here in some secluded part of the house. Heaven only knows if he is really aware of the truth, for he is so clever a scoundrel that he is quite capable of deceiving me on that point till the time is ripe to expose me and degrade me despite the sums of money I have paid him. I do not know, I dare not ask. Call me a coward if you like, but if you had gone through what I have----"
Barmouth paused, and wiped the moisture from his forehead.
"If I were not Lord Barmouth," he continued, "I would care little or nothing for what he says; but for the sake of my wife I have to submit to his persecutions. Therefore it is that at certain seasons of the year I meet Anstruther in Montrose Place and hand him over a thousand pounds. But there is one drawback to Anstruther's mastery of the situation. There are other men who were as vilely treated as myself, and some day Anstruther will fall by the hand of one of them.
"If you ask me why those hideous posters have been lately dotted about London, I can't tell you; I feel quite sure that they are some ingenious design of Anstruther's. I feel quite sure also that that Nostalgo you picked up the other night was here after Anstruther's blood, and that he died at Anstruther's instigation. My only consolation is the fact that my wife absolutely refused to break off her engagement on the strength of my terrible disfigurement. It was a long time before I yielded, but yield I did at length. And now that you know so much, perhaps you will be so good as to draw up the blinds, and let us talk face to face; that is, of course, if you do not object to----"
Jack hastily disclaimed any objection. He drew the blinds aside, and a flood of light poured into the room. It was a little difficult to repress a shudder at first, but he found himself presently talking to Barmouth as if his face had been like those of other men.
"You will find some cigarettes; this is my own room," Barmouth explained. "I furnished it more with an eye to comfort than anything else."
But Jack was not listening. He took up a cigarette mechanically, and was gazing intently at a photograph in a large silver frame standing on the mantelpiece. It was the face of a woman; a dark melancholy face, with mournful eyes.
"Would you mind telling me who that is?" Jack asked.