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Two spots of colour burned in the great smooth face.

“I never fluke,” he said majestically.

Simon smiled back. Then he raised his eyebrows and turned to the door.

“I say I never fluke. Take—back—those—notes.”

Simon turned, still smiling, to look the speaker in the eyes.

“I wouldn’t touch them,” he said, “with the end of a ten-foot pole.”

The Master recoiled. Then he seemed to shrink into himself.

The two red spots spread into deep blotches, and a hand went up to cover the quivering mouth.

For a moment he stood motionless. Then, with a visible effort, he touched the arm of his chair.

A bell throbbed.

Almost at once the door opened, and Simon passed out.

Patricia fingered her letter as though it were unreal.

At length—

“I—I can’t say much,” she said shakily. “And I can’t attempt to thank.”

“You know that I want no thanks,” said Simon Beaulieu.

“But I’d like to beg your pardon for what I said at Goodwood. I might have known, Simon ... I—I’ve no excuse.”

“I think you had every excuse,” said Simon Beaulieu. “I should have been most bitter. If I’d just shown you my death-warrant out of the blue, and you—you’d said, ‘One moment ... I jus’ want to see a man about a dog,’ I should have gone off the deep end.”