“And did you try the detective business?” inquired Paul.
“No,” returned Harry. “Oh yes, by the way, I did though: twice, and got caught out both times. But I thought I should find my—my wife here?” he added, with a kind of proud confusion.
“What? are you married?” cried Somerset.
“Oh yes,” said Harry, “quite a long time: a month at least.”
“Money?” asked Challoner.
“That’s the worst of it,” Desborough admitted. “We are deadly hard up. But the Pri—Mr. Godall is going to do something for us. That is what brings us here.”
“Who was Mrs. Desborough?” said Challoner, in the tone of a man of society.
“She was a Miss Luxmore,” returned Harry. “You fellows will be sure to like her, for she is much cleverer than I. She tells wonderful stories, too; better than a book.”
And just then the door opened, and Mrs. Desborough entered. Somerset cried out aloud to recognise the young lady of the Superfluous Mansion, and Challoner fell back a step and dropped his cigar as he beheld the sorceress of Chelsea.