But Gray was deaf to the promptings of prudence and good taste alike.

“I’m going to see the thing through,” he said hoarsely.

“Quite so.  Rely upon me.  But endeavor to behave more like a man of the world and less like a dangerous lunatic, or we shall quarrel atrociously.”

Quentin Gray audibly gnashed his teeth, but the cool stare of the other’s eyes was quelling, and now as their glances met and clashed, a sympathetic smile softened the lines of Seton’s grim mouth, and: 

“I quite understand, old chap,” he said, linking his arm in Gray’s.  “But can’t you see how important it is, for everybody’s sake, that we should tackle the thing coolly?”

“Seton”—­Gray’s voice broke—­“I’m sorry.  I know I’m mad; but I was with her only an hour ago, and now—­”

“And now ‘her’ husband appears on the scene accompanied by a police inspector and a sergeant.  What are your relations with Mr. Monte Irvin?”

They were walking rapidly again along Bond Street.

“What do you mean, Seton?” asked Gray.

“I mean does he approve of your friendship with his wife, or is it a clandestine affair?”

“Clandestine?—­certainly not.  I was on my way to call at the house when I met her with Pyne this evening.”

“That is what I wanted to know.  Very well; since you intend to follow the thing up, it simplifies matters somewhat.  Here is the car.”

“At Kazmah’s door!  What in heaven’s name does it mean?”

“It means that we shall get a very poor reception if we intrude.  Question the chauffeur.”

But Gray had already approached the man, who touched his cap in recognition.

“What’s the trouble, Pattison?” he demanded breathlessly.  “I saw police in the car a moment ago.”

“Yes, sir.  I don’t rightly know, sir, what’s happened.  But Mr. Irvin drove from home to the corner of old Bond Street a quarter of an hour ago and told me to wait, then came back again and drove round to Vine Street to fetch the police.  They’re inside now.”

Even as he spoke, with excitement ill-concealed, a police-sergeant came out of the doorway, and: 

“Move on, there,” he said to Seton and Gray.  “You mustn’t hang about this door.”

“Excuse me, Sergeant,” cried Gray, “but if the matter concerns Mrs. Monte Irvin I can probably supply information.”

The Sergeant stared at him hard, saw that both he and his friend wore evening dress, and grew proportionately respectful.

“What is your name, sir?” he asked.  “I’ll mention it to the officer in charge.”

“Quentin Gray.  Inform Mr. Monte Irvin that I wish to speak to him.”

“Very good, sir.”  He turned to the chauffeur.  “Hand me out the bag I gave you at Vine Street.”  Pattison leaned over the door at the front of the car, and brought out a big leather grip.  With this in hand the police-sergeant returned into the doorway.