“Get in there,” he ordered, pointing to the carriage.

The young man tried to escape, but he was held as though in a vise.  Before he well knew where he was, he was in the carriage, and Wingrave was seated by his side.

“What do you want with me?” he asked hoarsely.

“I want to know what you mean by following that lady about?” Wingrave asked.

The young man leaned forward.  His hand was upon the door.

“Let me get out,” he said sullenly.

“With pleasure—­presently,” Wingrave answered.  “I can assure you that I am not anxious to detain you longer than necessary.  Only you must first answer my question.”

“I want to speak to her!  I shall follow her about until I can!” the young man declared.

Wingrave glanced at him with a faint derisive smile.  His clothes were worn and shabby, he was badly in need of a shave and a wash.  He sat hunched up in a corner of the carriage, the picture of mute discomfort and misery.

“Do you know who she is?” Wingrave asked.

“Mademoiselle Violet!” the young man answered.

“You are mistaken,” Wingrave answered.  “She is Lady Ruth Barrington, wife of Lumley Barrington and daughter of the Earl of Haselton.”

The young man was unmoved.

“She is Mademoiselle Violet,” he declared.

The coupe drew up before the great block of buildings in which was Wingrave’s flat.  The footman threw open the door.

“Come in with me,” Wingrave said.  “I have something more to say to you.”

“I would rather not,” the young man muttered, and would have slouched off, but Wingrave caught him by the arm.

“Come!” he said firmly, and the youth obeyed.

Wingrave led the way into his sitting room and dismissed his servant who was setting out a tray upon the sideboard.

“Sit down,” he ordered, and his strange guest again obeyed.  Wingrave looked at him critically.

“It seems to me,” he said deliberately, “that you are another of those poor fools who chuck away their life and happiness and go to the dogs because a woman had chosen to make a little use of them.  You’re out of work, I suppose?”

“Yes!”

“Hungry?”

“I suppose so.”

Wingrave brought a plate of sandwiches from the sideboard, and mixed a whisky and soda.  He set them down in front of his guest, and turned away with the evening paper in his hand.

“I am going into the next room for some cigarettes,” he remarked.

He was gone scarcely two minutes.  When he returned, the room was in darkness.  He moved suddenly towards the electric lights, but was pushed back by an unseen hand.  A man’s hot breath fell upon his cheek, a hoarse, rasping voice spoke to him out of the black shadows.

“Don’t touch the lights!  Don’t touch the lights, I say!”

“What folly is this?” Wingrave asked angrily.  “Are you mad?”