"Not Miss Mordaunt!" ejaculated the knight, preparing to throw down the window and order the postillions to stop.
"No—not Miss Mordaunt," was the answer: "but one who loves you as well—or better—and is, I flatter myself, six times as good-looking."
"Then who are you, in the name of heaven?" cried the knight, so completely bewildered that he knew not how to act.
Charlotte—for it was she—threw back her veil, and, by the light of the shops which they were just passing in the outskirts, Sir Christopher recognised Lady Hatfield's dependant, whom he had seen on two or three occasions when he had called on Miss Mordaunt in Piccadilly.
"And who is your companion?" he demanded hastily.
"My sister Alice—at your service," replied Charlotte. "But listen to me for one moment, Sir Christopher!"
"Well—for one moment, then," said the knight, so strangely perplexed and annoyed that he could take no decisive step.
"Miss Mordaunt never loved you, Sir Christopher," continued the wily Charlotte.
"Never loved me! Then why did she tell me so?"
"Only to laugh at you. It was all planned between her and your nephew Mr. Frank Curtis——"