“Gilder has a flat off Regent’s Park,” he said. “Be as nice to him as you can, Leslie. He’s been a pretty useful man. By the way,” he said awkwardly, “he is a bachelor.”

She smiled at this; in her wildest dreams she would not have imagined that this statement had any particular interest for herself.

“I had no idea he was such a – that he was so prosperous,” she said. “No, I don’t mean that bachelorhood is a sign of poverty, but his estate at Chelfordbury, and his flat in Regent’s Park, are not exactly what one would have expected.”

“He isn’t a bad fellow,” repeated Arthur, as he rang the bell. “I think you’ll like him: he is rather – amusing.”

“Amusing” was not the word he would have used in all truth, but it was the only word he could think of at the moment. As though he were waiting for this summons, Mr Gilder came in answer to the bell. He carried a light coat over his arm and a spotless grey felt hat in his hand. Again Leslie was uncomfortably conscious of the man’s scrutiny.

“You know Mr Gilder, Leslie?”

His uneasiness and apprehension were communicating themselves to her. Try as she did, she could not succeed in shaking off her sensation of disquietude. The atmosphere was electric; she would have been dull indeed if she had not responded to the strain.

Throughout the journey Mr Gilder talked almost without interruption. He had a deep but pleasant voice, and was an easy conversationalist. Arthur was beginning to know something about the man with whom he had worked side by side all these years, and to regard him in a new light. Hitherto Gilder had been a cipher – a familiar figure that had appeared from heaven knew where in the morning and had disappeared at the end of a day’s work into the blue. As though unconscious of his employer’s wonder and speculation, Gilder chatted on.

Afterwards, Leslie catalogued the subjects which were discussed so one-sidedly during that drive. He talked of aviation, of wireless, of books he had read – Dumas was his favourite – of the war, of Russia, of Italy’s renaissance, of American writers, of the weather, polo – of almost every subject that occupied public attention. She knew that he was trying to impress her, and saw in this no more than the natural desire of a man to look well in the eyes of a woman.

The flat was bigger than she had expected, and was one of many in the most exclusive apartment house on the Outer Circle. Arthur viewed its expensive appointments with a glum face. One black week of his at Ascot must have furnished three such flats as this, he thought, and the little devil of resentment and loathing grew stronger in his heart.