"Mr. Townsend, be so good as to tell me who this woman is."
Thus requested, Mr. Townsend, scribbling something on a scrap of paper, tossed the scrap of paper across the table to his guest.
"There is her name and her address. I took you with me once to call on her. Probably you remember the occasion and the lady. Your business with her must be transacted before five o'clock this afternoon. If you are a quarter of an hour after that time you may as well postpone the fulfilment of your obligation to a future day. For my purpose you will be too late."
The other scanned what was written on the scrap of paper. He folded the paper up; he placed it in his waistcoat-pocket.
"You shall have the literal letter of your bond. Afterwards, Mr. Townsend, I will deal with you."
Without another word Lord Archibald Beaupré left the room.
Left to himself, Mr. Townsend threw the end of his cigarette into the fire. Thrusting his hands into his trouser-pockets, stretching out his legs in front of him, he stared at the flame and he smiled--not pleasantly.
"What a fool the fellow is! I have had about as much of him as I can stand. Indeed, I have had more. I hope they'll hang him. It will be a happy despatch. Or perhaps, after he has done the deed, he will turn, as a relief, to suicide. It's just the sort of thing he would do."
Something tickled him. He laughed.
"What a game of touch and go I'm playing."