Rupert Dale sat at the writing-table before the open windows of his sitting-room in Clanton Street, Westminster. It was a glorious summer morning. The sun had torn aside the grey mantle from the face of London. The roofs and spires of the city shone. The trees rustled their leaves in the warm breeze. The roar of traffic echoed in his ears. Rupert stretched himself, sighed, and leant back in his chair. His table was littered with papers. There were...