The banker’s shining forehead wrinkled in a reflective frown.
“Medenham?” he said.
“Fairholme’s eldest son.”
Mrs. Devar chortled.
“Such fun!” she said. “Our chauffeur calls himself George Augustus Fitzroy.”
“How odd!” agreed Countess Millicent.
“You people speak in riddles. Who or what is odd?” asked Ducrot.
“Oh, don’t worry, but listen to that adorable waltz.” Ducrot’s polished dome compared badly with the bronzed skin of the nice boy who had grown to be a man, so her ladyship’s rebellious tongue sought safety in silence, since she could not afford to quarrel with him.
It is certainly true that the gods make mad those whom they mean to destroy. Never was woman nearer to a momentous discovery than Mrs. Devar at that instant, but her active brain was plotting how best to develop a desirable acquaintance in Roger Ducrot, financier, and she missed utterly the astounding possibility that Viscount Medenham and George Augustus Fitzroy might be one and the same person.