As he uttered the name I literally held my breath. We had come to the house of Major Ragstaff's daughter, the Marchioness of Ireton, one of society's most celebrated and beautiful hostesses!—the wife of a peer famed alike as sportsman, soldier, and scholar.
“I believe she is dining at home, sir,” said the man. “Shall I inquire?”
“Be good enough to do so,” replied Harley, and gave him a card. “Inform her that I wish to return to her a handbag which she lost a few days ago.”
The man ushered us into an anteroom opening off the lofty and rather gloomy hall, and as the door closed:
“Harley,” I said in a stage whisper, “am I to believe———”
“Can you doubt it?” returned Harley with a grim smile.
A few moments later we were shown into a charmingly intimate little boudoir in which Lady Ireton was waiting to receive us. She was a strikingly handsome brunette, but to-night her face, which normally, I think, possessed rich colouring, was almost pallid, and there was a hunted look in her dark eyes which made me wish to be anywhere rather than where I found myself. Without preamble she rose and addressed Harley:
“I fail to understand your message, sir,” she said, and I admired the imperious courage with which she faced him. “You say you have recovered a handbag which I had lost?”
Harley bowed, and from the pocket of his greatcoat took out a silken-tasselled bag.
“The one which you left in the Cafe Dame, Lady Ireton,” he replied. “Here also I have”—from another pocket he drew out a diamond ring—“something which was extorted from you by the fellow Meyer.”