Something unregenerate in me, some lingering atavistic savage instinct towards freedom, rebelled against this same Iron Hand of Fate that, first clapping me on the shoulder long ago in Cape Town, was now dragging me, against my will, into ever thickening entanglement with the dark and crooked destiny of Leonard Boyce.
I tell you all this because I don't want to pose as a kind of apodal angel of mercy.
I was also deadly anxious as to the nature of the communication Boyce would make to me, before his mother should be informed of his arrival in London.

In spite of his frank confession, there was still such a cloud of mystery over the man's soul as to render any revelation possible.

Had his hurt declared itself to be a mortal one?
Had he summoned me to unburden his conscience while yet there was time?
Was it going to be a repetition, with a difference, of my last interview with Reggie Dacre?
I worried myself with unnecessary conjecture.
After a miserable drive through February rain and slush, I reached my destination in Belton Square, a large mansion, presumably equipped by its owner as a hospital for officers, and given over to the nation.

A telephone message had prepared the authorities for my arrival.
Marigold, preceded by the Sister in charge, carried me across a tesselated hall and began to ascend the broad staircase.
I uttered a little gasp and looked around me, for in a flash I realised where I was.

Twenty years ago I had danced in this house.