“I can assure your Grace,” he insisted earnestly, “that there is no doubt whatever about Sir Everard's identity. He only returned from Africa during the last few days.”
The Duchess's incredulity remained, wholly good-natured but ministered to by her natural obstinacy.
“I simply cannot bring myself to believe it,” she declared. “Come, I'll challenge you. When did we meet last?”
“At Worcester House,” was the prompt reply. “I came to say good-bye to you.”
The Duchess was a little staggered. Her eyes softened, a faint smile played at the corners of her lips. She was suddenly a very attractive looking woman.
“You came to say good-bye,” she repeated, “and?”
“I am to take that as a challenge?” Dominey asked, standing very upright and looking her in the eyes.
“As you will.”
“You were a little kinder to me,” he continued, “than you are to-day. You gave me—this,” he added, drawing a small picture from his pocketbook, “and you permitted—”
“For heaven's sake, put that thing away,” she cried, “and don't say another word! There's my grown-up nephew, St. Omar, paying his bill almost within earshot. Come and see me at half-past three this afternoon, and don't be a minute late. And, St. Omar,” she went on, turning to the young man who stood now by her side, “this is a connection of yours—Sir Everard Dominey. He is a terrible person, but do shake hands with him and come along. I am half an hour late for my dressmaker already.”