"What," he spluttered at length, "is the meaning of this abominable insult?"
But Hugh, his shoulders shaking slightly, was welcoming the next arrival—a rugged, beetle-browed man, whose face seemed vaguely familiar, but whose name he was unable to place.
"Crofter," shouted the infuriated author, "look at this as a description of me."
And Hugh watched the man, whom he now knew to be one of the extremist members of Parliament, walk over and glance at the book. He saw him conceal a smile, and then Valiance Nestor carried the good work on.
"We'll see what he says about you—impertinent blackguard." Rapidly he turned the pages, and Hugh glanced over Crofter's shoulder at the dossier.
He just had time to read: "Crofter, John. A consummate blackguard. Playing entirely for his own hand. Needs careful watching," when the subject of the remarks, his face convulsed with fury, spun round and faced him.
"Who wrote that?" he snarled.
"Must have been Mr. Peterson," answered Hugh placidly. "I see you had five thousand out of him, so perhaps he considers himself privileged. A wonderful judge of character, too," he murmured, turning away to greet Mr. Ditchling, who arrived somewhat opportunely, in company with a thin pale man—little more than a youth—whose identity completely defeated Drummond.
"My God!" Crofter was livid with rage. "Me
