Dominey bowed very slightly. His words seemed to have a cut and dried flavour.
“I am so sorry,” he replied, “but I fear that you make a mistake. My name is not Leopold.”
She stood quite still, looking at him with the air of not having heard a word of his polite disclaimer.
“In London, of all places,” she murmured. “Tell me, what does it mean?”
“I can only repeat, madam,” he said, “that to my very great regret I have not the honour of your acquaintance.”
She was puzzled, but absolutely unconvinced.
“You mean to deny that you are Leopold Von Ragastein?” she asked incredulously. “You do not know me?”
“Madam,” he answered, “it is not my great pleasure. My name is Dominey—Everard Dominey.”
She seemed for a moment to be struggling with some embarrassment which approached emotion. Then she laid her fingers upon his sleeve and drew him to a more retired corner of the little apartment.
“Leopold,” she whispered, “nothing can make it wrong or indiscreet for you to visit me. My address is 17, Belgrave Square. I desire to see you to-night at seven o'clock.”