Deering, who was considerably the taller, looked down on him from the ineffable heights of his social superiority, and replied deliberately,
"I have certainly had the pleasure of your acquaintance some years ago."
Then they stood silent, eye to eye—silent, yet exchanging deadly defiance. Deering, the most self-possessed of the two, was the first to speak.
"I fancy we have seen some changes since we met. Paris is not a bad place to anchor in after a wandering life, especially when one has so charming a companion as—Miss Lambert," adding the name after a slight pause.
"How do you know my daughter?" abruptly.
"Your friend, Mr. Vincent, was good enough to present me," said Deering calmly, with some emphasis on the name.
"My father seems to have found another acquaintance," said Elsie to Glynn. "It is curious."
Glynn scarce knew what to say. It was probable that Deering had known Lambert by some other name, known him under more doubtful circumstances than even he (Glynn) had. The idea stung him with a sense of angry pain. Deering was the last man to be trusted with such knowledge.
"Mr. Deering has been telling me about the lady of whom I remind him," resumed Miss Lambert. "She must have been very sweet and very charming, but most unhappy; her husband was murdered. I was quite interested, but I hope the likeness is not an evil omen."
"Impossible," cried Glynn. "Do not think of omens. Here comes Madame Davilliers to ask you to sing; pray do not refuse."