They did not
return to the drawing-room, but went out on the verandah, where, after
wrapping a cloak around Madge, Fitzgerald lit a cigarette. They sat
down at the far end of the verandah somewhat in the shadow, and could
see the hall door wide open, and a warm flood of mellow light pouring
therefrom, and beyond the cold, white moonshine. After about a quarter
of an hour, Madge's alarm about her father having somewhat subsided,
they were chatting on indifferent subjects, when a man came out of the
hall door, and paused for a moment on the steps of the verandah. He was
dressed in rather a fashionable suit of clothes, but, in spite of the
heat of the night, he had a thick white silk scarf round his throat.
"That's rather a cool individual," said Brian, removing his cigarette
from between his lips. "I wonder what--Good God!" he cried, rising to
his feet as the stranger turned round to look at the house, and took
off his hat for a moment--"Roger Moreland."
The man started, and looked quickly round into the dark shadow of the
verandah where they were seated, then, putting on his hat, he ran
quickly down the path, and they heard the gate clang after him.
Madge felt a sudden fear at the expression on Brian's face, as revealed
by a ray of moonlight streaming full on it.
"Who is Roger Moreland?" she asked, touching his arm--"Ah! I
remember," with sudden horror, "Oliver Whyte's friend."
"Yes," in a hoarse whisper, "and one of the witnesses at the trial.
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