"I couldn't be in London twenty-four hours without knowing something of the Jermyn Street affair," replied Calliston, coolly. "I know that a woman was found dead, and they arrested my cousin as the murderer, thinking the woman was Lena Sarschine."
"And 'aint she?" gasped Mrs. Povy.
"No, it was Lady Balscombe that was murdered."
"But I thought she went off with you?"
"Well, she didn't--shows I'm not as black as I'm painted," replied the young man, "but the worst of it is they seem to think I'm mixed up in the affair, and the detective was down at Brighton yesterday to see me. I quite expect a call from him this morning to find out what I know about the row."
"You don't think Mr. Desmond guilty, do you, my Lord?" asked Mrs. Povy, anxiously.
"Pish! what a question to ask," said Calliston, contemptuously, "you've been with our family for a long time, Mrs. Povy, and you ought to know our character by this time--Hullo!" as a knock came to the door, "who's that?"
The door opened and his valet entered, soft-footed and deferential.
"A gentleman to see you, my lord," he said, handing Calliston a card.
"Humph! I thought so," said Calliston, glancing at the card; "show Mr. Dowker up, Locker."