Wilmore knew then that all was well.  Francis’ old air of strength and decision had returned.  His voice was firm, his eyes were clear and bright.  His manner seemed even to invite questioning.

“I think I know why,” Wilmore said, “but I should like you to tell me in your own words.”

Francis glanced around as though to be sure that they were not overheard.

“Because,” he replied, dropping his voice a little but still speaking with great distinctness, “William Bull is a cunning and dangerous criminal whom I should prefer to see hanged.”

“You know that?”

“I know that.”

“It would be a great achievement to get him off,” Wilmore persisted.  “The evidence is very weak in places.”

“I believe that I could get him off,” was the confident reply.  “That is why I will not touch the brief.  I think,” Francis continued, “that I have already conveyed it to you indirectly, but here you are in plain words, Andrew.  I have made up my mind that I will defend no man in future unless I am convinced of his innocence.”

“That means—­”

“It means practically the end of my career at the bar,” Francis admitted.  “I realise that absolutely:  Fortunately, as you know, I am not dependent upon my earnings, and I have had a wonderful ten years.”

“This is all because of the Hilditch affair, I suppose?”

“Entirely.”

Wilmore was still a little puzzled.

“You seem to imagine that you have something on your conscience as regards that business,” he said boldly.

“I have,” was the calm reply.

“Come,” Wilmore protested, “I don’t quite follow your line of thought.  Granted that Hilditch was a desperate criminal whom by the exercise of your special gifts you saved from the law, surely his tragic death balanced the account between you and Society?”

“It might have done,” Francis admitted, “if he had really committed suicide.”

Wilmore was genuinely startled.  He looked at his companion curiously.

“What the devil do you mean, old chap?” he demanded.  “Your own evidence at the inquest was practically conclusive as to that.”

Francis glanced around him with apparent indifference but in reality with keen and stealthy care.  On their right was a glass division, through which the sound of their voices could not possibly penetrate.  On their left was an empty space, and a table beyond was occupied by a well-known cinema magnate engaged in testing the attractions in daily life of a would-be film star.  Nevertheless, Francis’ voice was scarcely raised above a whisper.

“My evidence at the coroner’s inquest,” he confided, “was a subtly concocted tissue of lies.  I committed perjury freely.  That is the real reason why I’ve been a little on the nervy side lately, and why I took these few months out of harness.”

“Good God!” Wilmore exclaimed, setting down untasted the glass of brandy which he had just raised to his lips.