"Christopher?"
"Dr. Christopher, the Harley Street man. He's the Duchess' doctor, has been for years. The girl was the Duchess' granddaughter—Lady Adela's niece."
"Well?"
"The girl's coming out in three days' time. They're giving a ball in Portland Place for her. Nobody knows much about her. She's been educated abroad, and always kept very close when she's here. I shouldn't think the old Duchess loves her much. She loved the girl's father, but he married a Russian actress, bolted to Russia with her, and the old lady never forgave him. He and the actress were both killed in a Petersburg fire, and the child was sent home—only tiny then——"
"Ah! that explains the foreign air she had. She didn't look as though she loved her aunt very much either."
"No—don't suppose she does. But that's not it—that's not it."
They had arrived now at the top of Bond Street, and they paused for a moment to allow the Oxford Street traffic to sweep past them.
It was an hour of stir and clatter—hansoms, carts, lumbering omnibuses, bicycles, all were hurled along as though by some impatient hand, and the evening light crept higher and higher along the walls of the street, leaving grey-purple shadows beneath it.
They crossed over, and were instantly in a dim, golden, voiceless square. It was as though a door had been closed.
Brun still held Arkwright's arm. "Now we can talk—no noise. Francis Breton has come back."