Westerham bowed over it but said nothing. He would indeed have choked over any words which he might have sought to utter. He was, perhaps, in as trying a position as he could well be in.
It might have been that Lady Kathleen expected him to say something, for she gazed after his retreating figure a little sadly and wistfully. The guests in their evening wraps drew aside to let this tall man in a blue serge suit pass them.
A few of them held out their hands, and some of them called “Good-night”; but Westerham passed on unheeding.
The taxicab in which he had come down from town was waiting at the door, and stepping into it he ordered the man to return to London. It was nearly three o'clock when he reached his hotel.
There, to his extreme annoyance, he was informed by the porter, who now regarded him with open suspicion, that a gentleman was waiting to see him.
“What is his name?” demanded Westerham, sharply.
“He didn't give any, sir,” said the man, “but he is in the smoking-room.”
Westerham entered that vast and dimly-lighted apartment, to be greeted on the threshold by Inspector Rookley.
“Good heavens! sir,” cried Westerham; “am I never to be rid of this constant persecution?