The Evil Shepherd | Page 6

in my life."
"And yet they are here together, dining tete-a-tete, on a night when it

must have needed more than ordinary courage for either of them to
have been seen in public at all," Wilmore pointed out.
"It is as astounding to me as it is to you," Francis confessed. "From the
way she spoke, I should never have dreamed that they were living
together."
"And from his appearance," Wilmore remarked, as he called the waiter
to bring some cigarettes, "I should never have imagined that he was
anything else save a high-principled, well-born, straightforward sort of
chap. I never saw a less criminal type of face."
They each in turn glanced at the subject of their discussion. Oliver
Hilditch's good-looks had been the subject of many press comments
during the last few days. They were certainly undeniable. His face was
a little lined but his hair was thick and brown. His features were regular,
his forehead high and thoughtful, his mouth a trifle thin but straight and
shapely. Francis gazed at him like a man entranced. The hours seemed
to have slipped away. He was back in the tea-shop, listening to the
woman who spoke of terrible things. He felt again his shivering
abhorrence of her cold, clearly narrated story. Again he shrank from the
horrors from which with merciless fingers she had stripped the
coverings. He seemed to see once more the agony in her white face, to
hear the eternal pain aching and throbbing in her monotonous tone. He
rose suddenly to his feet.
"Andrew," he begged, "tell the fellow to bring the bill outside. We'll
have our coffee and liqueurs there."
Wilmore acquiesced willingly enough, but even as they turned towards
the door Francis realised what was in store for him. Oliver Hilditch had
risen to his feet. With a courteous little gesture he intercepted the
passer-by. Francis found himself standing side by side with the man for
whose life he had pleaded that afternoon, within a few feet of the
woman whose terrible story seemed to have poisoned the very
atmosphere he breathed, to have shown him a new horror in life, to
have temporarily, at any rate, undermined every joy and ambition he
possessed.

"Mr. Ledsam," Hilditch said, speaking with quiet dignity, "I hope that
you will forgive the liberty I take in speaking to you here. I looked for
you the moment I was free this afternoon, but found that you had left
the Court. I owe you my good name, probably my life. Thanks are poor
things but they must be spoken."
"You owe me nothing at all," Francis replied, in a tone which even he
found harsh. "I had a brief before me and a cause to plead. It was a
chapter out of my daily work."
"That work can be well done or ill," the other reminded him gently. "In
your case, my presence here proves how well it was done. I wish to
present you to my wife, who shares my gratitude."
Francis bowed to the woman, who now, at her husband's words, raised
her eyes. For the first time he saw her smile. It seemed to him that the
effort made her less beautiful.
"Your pleading was very wonderful, Mr. Ledsam," she said, a very
subtle note of mockery faintly apparent in her tone. "We poor mortals
find it difficult to understand that with you all that show of passionate
earnestness is merely--what did you call it? --a chapter in your day's
work? It is a great gift to be able to argue from the brain and plead as
though from the heart."
"We will not detain Mr. Ledsam," Oliver Hilditch interposed, a little
hastily. "He perhaps does not care to be addressed in public by a client
who still carries with him the atmosphere of the prison. My wife and I
wondered, Mr. Ledsam, whether you would be good enough to dine
with us one night. I think I could interest you by telling you more about
my case than you know at present, and it would give us a further
opportunity, and a more seemly one, for expressing our gratitude."
Francis had recovered himself by this time. He was after all a man of
parts, and though he still had the feeling that he had been through one
of the most momentous days of his life, his savoir faire was making its
inevitable reappearance. He knew very well that the idea of that dinner
would be horrible to him. He also knew that he would willingly cancel

every engagement he had rather than miss it.
"You are very kind," he murmured.
"Are we fortunate enough to find you disengaged," Hilditch suggested,
"to-morrow evening?"
"I am quite free," was the ready response.
"That suits you, Margaret?" Hilditch asked, turning