This he did, bringing me to a large, cheerful apartment looking out over the garden.
"You'll be all right here, I think," he said. "No one to disturb you, except the Baradells—they're across the passage. Sure you've got everything you want?"
"Yes, thanks," I said.
"Dinner eight o'clock," he added, and, going out, closed the door.
I dressed myself in leisurely fashion, taking, as I did so, a kind of mental stock of my experiences since my arrival. So far, things appeared to be progressing quite satisfactorily. It was true I had been a trifle too genial for the part of Northcote, but of my identity no one in the house, even including Maurice, appeared to have the faintest suspicion.
About my fellow-guests I had not yet quite made up my mind. Vane and York seemed harmless enough in their respective ways, and I could hardly believe that they were concerned in the plot against me—if such a thing existed. Lady Baradell was a more complicated issue. Light and chaffing as her remarks had been, some subtle instinct warned me that our relations were on a more intimate footing that would have appeared from her greeting. Whether she knew anything about Northcote's history or not I was, of course, unaware, but I felt sure that some kind of understanding existed between them.
As I tied my tie in the glass, I examined myself critically by the light of two candles. The likeness was certainly astounding. If I had not known that I was in reality Jack Burton of Buenos Ayres and God knows where else, I would have sworn that the face which looked back at me was that of the man from whom I had parted in the Milan restaurant three strenuous days before.
When I got down to the dining-room, I found the whole party assembled, with the exception of Lady Baradell. She swept in a moment later, looking superb in a low black evening dress, and wearing a magnificent collar of emeralds, which were just the right stones to go with her wonderful copper-coloured hair.
I was detailed to take in "Aunt Mary," not, I think, wholly to the latter's satisfaction. Lady Baradell, with Sir George Vane as a partner, sat on the other side of me.
I forget what we talked about during dinner—most of it the usual stock of trivialities, I fancy, enlivened by some very ancient anecdotes from Sir George, who seemed to possess a magnificent wardrobe of "humour's cast-off clothes." I remember getting so bored with the third of his long-winded efforts that I was seized with a mischievous determination to tell, in an amended form, the interesting tale of my experiences with "Francis." It struck me that if Maurice had been responsible for planting that gentleman in the house, a naïve narration of the consequences might convince him that my suspicions with regard to his kindly self were still unaroused. He must know by now how the attempt had ended, and silence in the matter on my part might well seem suspicious.