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"Gentlemen," said Lord Marcus, "I beg you to be seated."

Chief Inspector Firth was angrily conscious of feeling ill at ease. The situation was outside his experience. There was folly, madness, in the story somewhere; for he doubted the sanity of this impassive, linen-robed man, who during a national crisis unique in history could find time for whatever mumbo-jumbo was going on behind that drawn curtain. Nevertheless, Lord Marcus, mad or sane, was a son of the aged Marquis of Ord: therefore the Chief Inspector began awkwardly:

"Might I ask, sir, at what time Sir Giles arrived?"

"Arrived?" the musical voice echoed. "I fear I cannot tell you exactly; but the sound of his arrival, if it may be so described, broke in upon the Rites at a moment of great danger to myself, since I was compelled to break the contact in order to learn what had occurred."

And now the courteous, but incomprehensible, character of this reply increased Firth's ill-humor. What did Lord Marcus mean by "the Rites"—or for that matter, "breaking the contact"?