“Ah, then our friend the chevalier is not so young as the picture on the bill would have us believe he is.”

“No, he is not.  As a matter of fact, he is considerably past forty, and is—­or, rather, was, up to six months ago, a widower with three children, two sons and a daughter.”

“I suppose,” said Cleek, helping himself to a buttered scone, “I am to infer from what you say that at the period you mentioned, six months ago, the intrepid gentleman showed his courage yet more forcibly by taking a second wife?  Young or old?”

“Young,” said Narkom in reply.  “Very young, not yet four-and-twenty, in fact, and very, very beautiful.  That is she who is ‘featured’ on the bill as the star of the equestrian part of the programme:  ’Mlle. Marie de Zanoni.’  So far as I have been able to gather, the affair was a love match.  The lady, it appears, had no end of suitors, both in and out of the profession; it has even been hinted that she could, had she been so minded, have married an impressionable young Austrian nobleman of independent means who was madly in love with her; but she appears to have considered it preferable to become ‘an old man’s darling,’ so to speak, and to have selected the middle-aged chevalier rather than someone whose age is nearer her own.”

“Nothing new in that, Mr. Narkom.  Young women before Mlle. Marie de Zanoni’s day have been known to love elderly men sincerely:  young Mrs. Bawdrey, in the case of ‘The Nine-fingered Skeleton,’ is an example of that.  Still, such marriages are not common, I admit, so when they occur one naturally looks to see if there may not be ‘other considerations’ at the bottom of the attachment.  Is the chevalier well-to-do?  Has he expectations of any kind?”

“To the contrary; he has nothing but the salary he earns—­which is by no means so large as the public imagines; and as he comes of a long line of circus performers, all of whom died early and poor, ‘expectations,’ as you put it, do not enter into the affair at all.  Apparently the lady did marry him for love of him, as she professes and as he imagines; although, if what I hear is true, it would appear that she has lately outgrown that love; in short, that a Romeo more suitable to her age has recently joined the show in the person of a rider called Signor Antonio Martinelli; that he has fallen desperately in love with her, and that—­”

He bit off his words short and rose to his feet.  The door had opened suddenly to admit a young man and a young woman, who entered in a state of nervous excitement.  “Ah, my dear Mr. Scarmelli, you and Miss Zelie are most welcome,” continued the superintendent.  “My friend and I were this moment talking about you.”

Cleek glanced across the room, and, as was customary with him, made up his mind instantly.  The girl, despite her association with the arena, was a modest, unaffected little thing of about eighteen; the man was a straight-looking, clear-eyed, boyish-faced young fellow of about eight-and-twenty; well, but by no means flashily, dressed, and carrying himself with the air of one who respects himself and demands the respect of others.  He was evidently an Englishman, despite his Italian nom de theatre, and Cleek decided out of hand that he liked him.