"I can tell you as much truth as any one else about her," said the major, "I was with the manager last evening. La Vanira is English. I grant that she looks like a Spaniard—I never saw such dark eyes in my life; but she is English; accomplished, clever, good as gold, and has no one belonging to her in the wide world. That much the manager told me himself."
"But where does she come from?" he asked, impatiently. "Everybody comes from somewhere."
"The manager's idea is that she was brought up in the midland counties; he thinks so from a few words she said one day."
"Is she married or single?" asked Lord Chandos.
"Single," was the reply; "and in no hurry to be married. She has refused some of the best offers that could be made; and yet she wears a ring on the third finger of her left hand—perhaps it is not a wedding-ring."
"I should like to see her," said Lord Chandos.
The white-haired major laughed.
"So would half the men in London, but no one visits her—she allows no introductions. I know a dozen and more who have tried to see her in vain."
He was not much wiser after this conversation than before; but he was more determined to know. That same evening he made another excuse, and left his wife at Lady Blanchard's ball while he drove to the opera-house. The opera was almost over, but he saw the manager, to whom he briefly stated his errand.
"I believe," he said, "that in Madame Vanira I recognize an old friend. Will you introduce me to her?"