The young man whose life Celia had saved crossed the courtyard of the
building, and walked quickly into Victoria Street. Though he was a
fugitive, there was nothing furtive in his gait, and he looked straight
before him with a preoccupied air. As a matter of fact, he was not
thinking at that moment of his own escape, but of the face which had
looked down on him over the rail of the corridor. If Celia had been
moved by the expression in his eyes, as he looked up at her, he was
still more impressed by the tender, womanly pity in hers; and he was so
lost in the thought of all that she had done for him, of her courage and
compassion, that there was no room in his mind for any anxiety on his
own account.
But presently the sight of a policeman recalled Derrick Dene to the
peril of the situation. He fingered the five-pound note in his pocket
and stood at the corner of a street hesitating; then, with a little
gesture of determination, he walked on again quickly in the direction of
Sloane Square, reached it, and turning into one of the streets leading
from it he entered one of the tall buildings of expensive flats.
Declining the porter's offer of the lift, he went quickly up the stairs,
which, unlike those of Brown's Buildings, were carpeted and well-lit,
and rang the bell of a flat on the second floor.
"Lord Heyton in?" he inquired of the servant. "Yes, I know he is," he
added quickly, as he caught the scent of a cigarette. "Is he alone? All
right, don't trouble to announce me." He walked quickly across the
passage, entered a room and, closing the door behind him, turned the key
in the lock.
A young man was sprawling in a low chair before the fire. He was a
good-looking young man, very fair, with rather thin hair, parted in the
middle; his eyes were blue and somewhat prominent, his mouth weak and
sensual; he was in evening-dress, and presented a definite type of the
young man about town.
As he turned his head at the click of the lock and saw his visitor, his
face flushed hotly, his under-lip drooped, his eyes opened widely, and
he clutched at the arms of the chair. Fear was written all over him in
large letters. There was silence for a moment or two; then, with a catch
of his breath, he rose and involuntarily muttered the other man's name.
He also held out his hand; but Dene, ignoring it, seated himself on the
table and, pointing to the chair, said, curtly, but without anger: "Sit down, Heyton. Sit down. Yes; I've come. You didn't expect to see
me. You thought you had got rid of me? Well, I'm going right enough; but
I wanted a word or two with you first."