"You know her?" he said, in accents of extreme surprise. "Then you know who the—the man was, too? At first I thought—oh, a mad thought!—because of the extraordinary resemblance!"
He was still a little incoherent, and unable to speak the thoughts that were rushing through his startled brain. With shaking hand, he took out a gold cigarette-case and tried to light one of the little white tubes.
A tall policeman came up to them.
"You must move on, if you please, gentlemen," he said. "The pavements must be kept clear at this time of night."
"Look here," Sir Thomas said to Hampson, "my name is Ducaine—Sir Thomas Ducaine. You know something of all this—you know Miss Lys. I want to talk to you. I must talk to you, sir! Now, I live only a few yards from here, my house is in Piccadilly. Won't you come and spend an hour or two with me? It would be a great kindness. I'm sure you want some supper, too, after all this terrible excitement."
Hampson made up his mind immediately. He was attracted to the fresh-looking, strong-faced young man. He liked what he had said about the leprous play, before Joseph's appearance. And he also was terribly bewildered, and needed human companionship and talk. Moreover, he was faint with hunger—the emotions he had endured had robbed his blood of all his strength, and his brain had burnt up the vital force within him. He would go with Sir Thomas.
"I thank you!" he said, noting with surprise how thin and tired his own voice was. "I shall be glad to come. My name is Hampson, and I am the editor of a weekly newspaper."
"We will go at once," Sir Thomas answered, and crossing the Circus, the strangely assorted pair walked rapidly down Piccadilly.
They had traversed about a third of that street of clubs and mansions when the baronet stopped at the massive door of a large bow-windowed house, opened it with a tiny Bramah key, and Hampson found himself, for the first time in his life, in the house of a wealthy and fashionable young gentleman of London.
A silent manservant took their coats, and the host led the way to a small room, which opened into the hall at the further end of it. Here another and older man was waiting—the butler, evidently. A small round table was laid for supper with dainty richness. A mass of hothouse violets stood in a silver bowl in the centre; there were tall hock-glasses of Venetian ware, purple also; and the table-cloth and serviettes were fringed with purple.