The following morning, just as I was going to start for my morning stroll, the servant came and said that a "gentleman" wished to see me. She hesitated as she said "gentleman," as if she were doubtful if that word exactly applied.
"Admiral Beamish?" enquired the visitor as I entered the room into which the maid had shown him. I told him that I was that individual. "Can you tell me what is my wife's present address? She appears to have changed her lodging. I am Mr Dowsett."
I stared. The visitor was a small, insignificant, sandy-haired, mild-looking individual of about forty years of age. No wonder the servant had hesitated to call him a "gentleman." He carried "small shopkeeper" on him, written large.
"I don't understand you. I fancy there is some mistake," I said.
The stranger eyed me as though the mere tone of my voice filled him with alarm.
"Perhaps so. But my wife told me that she had the honour of your acquaintance, She mentioned your name in her last letter."
"Your wife? Who is your wife?"
"My wife is Mrs Dowsett."
"Dowsett?" A cold shiver went down my back. I had heard the name before. "Is it possible that you are referring to the Princess Margaretta?"
"The--who?"