A discreet footman rapped softly, and being told to enter, glided into the room, bearing a card upon a tiny silver tray, which he brought to his master.
The duke took it, languidly glanced at it, knit his brows, and took up his reading-glass and examined it closely. No! his eyes had not deceived him. The card bore the name: Archbald A. J. Scott.
"Who brought this?" inquired the duke.
"A young gentleman, sir," respectfully answered the footman.
"Where is he?"
"I showed him into the blue reception room, your grace."
The duke paused a moment, gazing at the card, and then abruptly demanded:
"What is the young man like?"
"Most genteel, your grace; most like our young lord, and about his age, and dressed in the deepest mourning, your grace; and most particular anxious to see your grace."
"I do not know the boy at all; do not know where he came from, nor what he wants; but he bears the family name, and looks like Arondelle," mused the duke, gazing at the card and knitting his brow.