"Lord Heyton in?" he inquired of the servant. "Yes, I know he is," he
added quickly, as he caught the scent of a cigarette. "Is he alone? All
right, don't trouble to announce me." He walked quickly across the
passage, entered a room and, closing the door behind him, turned the key
in the lock.

A young man was sprawling in a low chair before the fire. He was a
good-looking young man, very fair, with rather thin hair, parted in the
middle; his eyes were blue and somewhat prominent, his mouth weak and
sensual; he was in evening-dress, and presented a definite type of the
young man about town.

As he turned his head at the click of the lock and saw his visitor, his
face flushed hotly, his under-lip drooped, his eyes opened widely, and
he clutched at the arms of the chair. Fear was written all over him in
large letters. There was silence for a moment or two; then, with a catch
of his breath, he rose and involuntarily muttered the other man's name.
He also held out his hand; but Dene, ignoring it, seated himself on the
table and, pointing to the chair, said, curtly, but without anger: "Sit down, Heyton. Sit down. Yes; I've come. You didn't expect to see
me. You thought you had got rid of me? Well, I'm going right enough; but
I wanted a word or two with you first."