Doris recoiled, and drew her hand away so suddenly that his thin, feeble one fell abruptly to his side.
“The Marquis of Stoyle!” she echoed, every vestige of color leaving her face. “Yes, I will tell her, my lord,” and she turned and walked quickly away.
The marquis looked after her with knitted brows—looked so long that the valet gently pressed his arm as a reminder.
“Yes, yes—I am coming!” exclaimed the old man, impatiently. Then he said, “Do I know that young lady? You saw her—do I know her? She has been very kind to me—very!”
“No, my lord, she is a stranger to me,” replied the man.
“A stranger. Yes, yes. And yet——”
And, with knitted brows and troubled look in his eyes he permitted his man to lead him away.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
OUT OF THE PAST.
“So the illustrious visitor turns out to be the great Marquis of Stoyle!” exclaimed Lady Despard, with a laugh of surprise. “The Marquis of Stoyle! And you have been leading him about like a blind beggar? How I wish I had been there to see you! But it seems to have upset you, dear,” she added; “you look really pale now, and—why, you haven’t been crying?” and she drew Doris beside her on to the lounge.