“Ze shrimp!” he cried triumphantly, waving a napkin which he held in his other hand.
“Crikey, who’s this!” cried Tommy.
Well he might! Monsieur Alphonse wore a tight-fitting frock-coat, a waterfall tie of huge dimensions, pearl-grey trousers, white spats, and patent-leather boots, a red rose in one lapel of the coat, and in the other the blue ribbon of the Order of St Honoratus of Pomerania, bestowed on him by his Serene Highness the Reigning Duke, on the occasion of the latter’s coronation banquet.
The Duke was vexed. “Monsieur Alphonse,” he said, “I did not ring.” Naturally he forgot the absence of a bell.
“Mais, Monsieur le——”
The Duke arrested his words with a gesture, and turned to Angela.
“Further concealment, madam, is, I fear, useless. I am not what I seem. May I rely on your honour?”
Angela fixed her charming blue eyes on the Duke.
“But who are you? And what does it mean?”
There is no telling what explanation the Duke intended to proffer; for at this instant Tommy cried, with every appearance of agitation: “Angela, Willie Anderson was right! It is them!”