After much deliberation to the same effect, he determined, somewhat reluctantly, that there was nothing for it but to endeavour to enlist the sympathies of one of Rainham’s more intimate friends.  He had recurred by this time to the unstable hypothesis that he was acting primarily in Rainham’s interest, that his real motive was to arrive at the truth on the chance that it might be favourable to his unadmitted rival.  It only remained for him to select out of the limited material at his disposal the man whom he should invite to enter upon this alliance.  And when he reached the gloomy library of the eminently respectable club, where he was accustomed, before dining, to study the evening papers and to write his letters, the choice had been made; and after one or two abortive efforts, he composed to his satisfaction a diplomatic epistle, which he addressed to Oswyn (with whom he enjoyed a nodding acquaintance) at the restaurant in Turk Street.

Late in the afternoon of the next day Sylvester sat alone and expectant before a pile of temporarily neglected papers, telling himself that Rainham ought to be very grateful for these strenuous efforts in the interests of his injured reputation.  He was beginning to wonder nervously whether Oswyn would fail him, when he heard a knock at the outer door, followed by an unfamiliar step, and the clerk announced that a gentleman wished to see him by appointment on private business.  The barrister rose from his seat with a portentous display of polite, awkward cordiality, and motioned his guest into a chair.

“It’s extremely good of you to take the trouble to come,” he said tentatively.

“That depends upon what you want of me,” answered Oswyn shrewdly.  “You said in your note that it was on a matter of vital importance to a friend of mine.  I haven’t so many friends that I can afford to shirk a little trouble in a matter which vitally concerns one of them.  May I ask, in the first place, who is the friend?”

Sylvester picked up the open brief which lay before him on the table, and folded it scrupulously.

“Philip Rainham,” he answered, and then shot a quick glance at Oswyn.

“Rainham?” echoed the other with an air suggestive at once of surprise and relief, as if, perhaps, he had been expecting to hear another name.  “You are right, he is a friend,” he added simply.  “What can I do for him?”

“Well, the fact is, I’m afraid he’s got into difficulties—­a scrape, an imbroglio, with a woman!”

The painter lifted his expressive eyebrows incredulously.

“Since I last saw him—­three days ago?”

“Oh, dear, no; the thing’s been going on, I should say, for quite a long time—­more than a year to my knowledge.”

Oswyn reflected for a moment, gazing at Sylvester with some suspicion.

“I don’t think it troubles him much,” he said brusquely.  “Is it any business of mine—­or of yours?  Has he spoken to you about it?”