We had reached the big hall, where several people were standing about, apparently preparing to leave. Amongst them I noticed the elderly white-haired man who had been Mercia's companion when she first entered the ballroom. I realised now that he must be Sir Henry Tregattock, which explained to me why his face had seemed familiar. He looked much older, however, than when I had met him in La Paz ten years before.
He saw us at once and came forward to meet us.
"Oh, there you are, Mercia," he said. "I was wondering what had happened to you. I don't want to hurry you, but—"
He stopped abruptly. His eyes were fixed on mine, and he had suddenly drawn himself up with a gesture in which amazement and hostility were very evenly blended.
Mercia had gone rather white. "You—you know Mr. Northcote," she faltered. "I will go and put on my things. I shan't be a minute."
She vanished from my side, leaving me in what appeared likely to be a somewhat embarrassing position. It seemed to me highly improbable that Sir Henry could possibly remember me from our five minutes' conversation in the dim past, and, in any case, if he did, there was no earthly reason why he should have bristled up in this alarming fashion. It struck me at once that he must be mistaking me for my double.
"I think Miss de Rosen is right, Mr. Northcote," he remarked, with icy politeness. "We have met before, but under rather different circumstances."
"Yes," I said boldly. "I had the pleasure of five minutes' conversation with you in La Paz ten years ago."
His eyebrows lifted the fraction of an inch. "Indeed!" he remarked dryly. "But I was referring to a somewhat later date. Possibly your experiences in San Luca were not sufficiently pleasant to warrant your retaining any very clear recollection of them."
This was what Billy would have called "a jab in the plexus," but I received it without wincing.