Afterwards, both Francis and Andrew Wilmore marvelled at themselves, unable at any time to find any reasonable explanation of their conduct, for they answered this man neither with ridicule, rudeness nor civility.  They simply stared at him, impressed with the convincing arrogance of his challenge and unable to find words of reply.  They received his mocking farewell without any form of reciprocation or sign of resentment.  They watched him leave the room, a dignified, distinguished figure, sped on his way with marks of the deepest respect by waiters, maitres d’hotels and even the manager himself.  They behaved, indeed, as they both admitted afterwards, like a couple of moonstruck idiots.  When he had finally disappeared, however, they looked at one another and the spell was broken.

“Well, I’m damned!” Francis exclaimed.  “Soto, come here at once.”

The manager hastened smilingly to their table.

“Soto,” Francis invoked, “tell us quickly—­tell us the name of the gentleman who has just gone out, and who he is?”

Soto was amazed.

“You don’t know Sir Timothy Brast, sir?” he exclaimed.  “Why, he is supposed to be one of the richest men in the world!  He spends money like water.  They say that when he is in England, his place down the river alone costs a thousand pounds a week.  When he gives a party here, we can find nothing good enough.  He is our most generous client.”

“Sir Timothy Brast,” Wilmore repeated.  “Yes, I have heard of him.”

“Why, everybody knows Sir Timothy,” Soto went on eloquently.  “He is the greatest living patron of boxing.  He found the money for the last international fight.”

“Does he often come in alone like this?” Francis asked curiously.

“Either alone,” Soto replied, “or with a very large party.  He entertains magnificently.”

“I’ve seen his name in the paper in connection with something or other, during the last few weeks,” Wilmore remarked reflectively.

“Probably about two months ago, sir,” Soto suggested.  “He gave a donation of ten thousand pounds to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and they made him a Vice President....  In one moment, sir.”

The manager hurried away to receive a newly-arrived guest.  Francis and his friend exchanged a wondering glance.

“Father of Oliver Hilditch’s wife,” Wilmore observed, “the most munificent patron of boxing in the world, Vice President of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and self-confessed arch-criminal!  He pulled our legs pretty well!”

“I suppose so,” Francis assented absently.

Wilmore glanced at his watch.

“What about moving on somewhere?” he suggested.  “We might go into the Alhambra for half-an-hour, if you like.  The last act of the show is the best.”

Francis shook his head.

“We’ve got to see this thing out,” he replied.  “Have you forgotten that our friend promised us a sensation before we left?”