Phil Poland stood rigid as a statue. The blow had fallen. His secret was out.
He sprang forward towards the garden, in order to recall his visitor. But next instant he drew himself back.
No. Now that the friend whom he had trusted had turned upon him, he would face the music rather than add another crime to his discredit and dishonour.
Philip Poland, alias Louis Lessar and half-a-score of other names, halted, and raised his pale, repentant face to Heaven for help and guidance.
II
CONCERNS TWO STRANGERS
That night Phil Poland glanced longingly around the well-furnished dining-room with its white napery, its antique plate, and its great bowl of yellow roses in the centre of the table between the silver candelabra with white silk shades. Alone he sat at his dinner, being waited upon by Felix, the thin-faced, silent Frenchman in black who was so devoted to his master and so faithful in his service.
It was the last time he would eat his dinner there, he reflected. The choice of two things lay before him—flight, or arrest.