Supper ended, Marie and Millie, and eke Flossie, attended by their swains, discussed coffee and cognac in the foyer.
Chance separated Miss le Marchant, as she may now be known, momentarily from the others, and Bruce darted forward.
“Good-evening,” he said. “I am delighted to meet you here.”
The girl recognized him instantly. She would have denied her identity, but her nerve failed her before those steadfast, penetrating eyes. Moreover, it was not an ill thing for such a well-bred, well-dressed man to acknowledge her so openly.
“Good-evening, Mr. Bruce,” she said, with a smile of assurance, though her voice faltered a little.
He resolved to make the situation easy.
“We have not met for such a long time,” he said; “and I am simply dying to have a talk with you. I am sure your friends will pardon me if I carry you off for five minutes to a quiet corner.”
With a simper, Miss le Marchant took his proffered arm, and they went off to an unoccupied table.
“Now, Jane Harding,” said he, with some degree of sternness in his manner, “be good enough to explain to me why you are passing under a false name, and the reasons which led you to leave Sir Charles Dyke’s house in such a particularly disagreeable way.”
“Disagreeable? I only left in a hurry. Who had any right to stop me?”