"Mrs. Pavely," said Lord St. Amant thoughtfully, "would probably refuse to leave England. I think, I fear, that she loves Oliver Tropenell—passionately."
He added abruptly, "Are you having him watched?"
Sir Angus cleared his throat. "Well, no, not exactly watched. We are of course aware that he has been staying with you for the past week, and that he is going back to Freshley Manor—is it to-morrow, or the day after to-morrow? I take it that he would probably prefer to be arrested in his mother's house."
A feeling of sick horror came over the other man's heart. "I—I suppose so," he muttered.
And then Sir Angus Kinross dropped his voice: "You really know this man and I don't. Do you think it advisable that he should be prepared for what is coming—that you, for instance, St. Amant——"
"Do you mean," exclaimed Lord St. Amant, "that I may—warn him?"
The other nodded. "Yes, that is what I suggest that you should do. I take it that we can be quite sure that he will do nothing mad or foolish—that he will not try to get away, for instance? It would be quite useless, and I need hardly point out that it would ruin his chances—later. I think you are at liberty to tell him, as from yourself of course, that you have reason to think he has a sporting chance, St. Amant. But I am trusting, not only to your honour, but to your secrecy and—and discretion."
The other nodded gravely. "Tropenell's not the sort of man to run away."
"No, I don't think he is—once he knows the game is up," answered the Commissioner of Police a trifle grimly.