Four years of prison life had left but little mark upon the former chairman of Fanshawe’s Bank. His complexion, always pale, was perhaps a shade whiter, his lean face just a trifle thinner still; otherwise Mallett could observe no change in the man he had last seen in the dock at the Old Bailey. The voice, too, when he spoke, was the same—quiet and cultured, always with a cynical undertone beneath the smooth surface, a hint of hidden fires kept resolutely under control. John Fanshawe was a very different type of man from the financier with whom his name had so often been coupled. A man of taste and refinement, he had lived in his days of prosperity aloof from the world. He had been able to enjoy riches without arrogance, just as he had met ruin and disgrace without whining. In good times and bad alike, he had been as if sustained by some hidden source of fortitude, an innate pride which never deserted him.

Mallett felt oddly abashed before this calm proud man, but Fanshawe put him at his ease at once.

“Good afternoon, Inspector,” he began. “I think you have been promoted since we last met?”

“I have—yes,” answered Mallett. “Good afternoon, Mr. Fanshawe.”

Fanshawe lowered himself into the arm-chair and took a cigarette. “Mr. Fanshawe!” he murmured. “You have no idea how refreshing it is to recover one’s individuality again! I wonder whether anybody who has not experienced it can know what it feels like to be a mere number. That is the real horror of prison life, Mallett, the sinking of one’s identity in a herd of indistinguishable fellow creatures. ‘He that filches from me my good name’,” he quoted. “Well, thank heavens that is over, at all events!” He glanced round the room. “Forgive me,” he went on, “but have not rather elaborate preparations been made to receive me? I mean——” he waved his hand at the stenographer in the corner—“it almost looks as though something in the nature of a public utterance was expected of me. I’m afraid you are likely to be disappointed.”

“Perhaps it would save us both trouble if you said exactly what you have come here for,” said Mallett severely.

“I apologize, Inspector,” said Fanshawe, the irony in his voice making itself felt. “Your time is valuable I know. I shall waste very little of it. I have merely come to make a complaint. I want to know why I, a week after my release from jail, should still be subjected to the indignity and inconvenience of being shadowed by detectives.”

Mallett found it hard to suppress a smile. It was a somewhat ludicrous coincidence that this request should follow so hard on Du Pine’s plea for police protection. Aloud he said:

“You will understand, Mr. Fanshawe, that the circumstances are a little unusual.”