AN EXPLANATION
The little gentleman minced into the room, smiling and bowing. As I stood in the shadow, removed from the strong light of the electrics, he did not catch sight of me when he first entered. Exactly as he behaved at Burwain, so did he behave in London--that is, as a specious humbug. Of course he looked as though he had just been taken out of a bandbox, and his petit-mâitre air was more pronounced than ever. With the assurance of a man accustomed to attention, he made a tour of the circle.
"Lady Denham, you are looking more charming than ever. Lady Mabel, the good wine of your beauty needs no bush to advertise its perfection. Cannington, I am delighted to see you again. Mr. Weston "--this last name was pronounced less effusively--"I trust the airship stocks are rising. Ha! ha!" then he tittered at his small joke, made a comprehensive bow, and looked at me.
I quite expected to see him turn pale: I half expected to see him fly from the house where he was sailing under false colors. But I had yet to learn the complete self-possession of Mr. Walter Monk, alias Mr. Wentworth Marr. He might have foreseen the meeting, so coolly did he eye me through his pince-nez. The tables were turned with a vengeance, for I felt more like the culprit than did Mr. Monk.
"This is our oldest friend," said Mabel, and unless she had spoken I do not know how the little traitor would have acted, "Mr. Cyrus Vance."
"The dramatic author, I believe," remarked Mr. Monk--it is just as well to call him by his true name to prevent confusion--and bowed politely.
"Yes," said I, with a cool smile. There was no reason at that moment why I should denounce the little man, and he played his comedy so deliciously that, from sheer admiration of his impudence, I felt compelled to take a judicious part in the same. "I am happy to meet you Mr.--er--er----"
"Marr, old chap," put in Cannington, quite unaware that anything was wrong.
"Yes, of course, Mr. Marr."
"Thank you," observed the fraud with a bow, "you flatter me, Mr. Vance."