“They were very foolish,” sighed the girl rather wearily.

“Mr. Sylvester was there for the last fortnight,” continued Lady Garnett, with some malice.  “He succeeded Lord Overstock, as Mary’s musical acolyte.  In revenge, Lord Overstock wished to teach her baccarat, and Mr. Sylvester remonstrated.  It was sublime!  It was the one moment of amusement vouchsafed me.”

Mary flushed, locking her hands together nervously, with a trace of passion.

“It was ridiculous! intolerable!  He had no right——!”

Lady Garnett bent forward, taking her hand.

“Forgive me, cherie!  I did not mean to annoy you....  You can imagine how glad we were to see you,” she added, with a sudden turn to Rainham.  “It was charming of you to call so soon; you could hardly have expected to find us.”

“You must not give me too much credit.  I happened to be quite near, in Harley Street.  I could not pass without inquiring.”

“Ah, well,” she said, “since you are here——­”

She was looking absently away from him into an antique, silver basket which lay on the little table by her side, in which were miscellaneous trifles, odd pieces of lace, thimbles which she never used, a broken fan, a box of chocolates.

“Mary, my dear,” she said quickly, “I am so stupid!  The old bonbonniere, with the brilliants?  I must have left it on my dressing-table, or somewhere.  That new housemaid—­we really know nothing about her—­it would be such a temptation.  Would you mind——­”

“Is this——­” Rainham began, and stopped short.

Lady Garnett’s brilliant eyes, and a little admonitory gesture of one hand, restrained him.  When the girl had shut the door behind her, the elder lady turned to him with a quaint smile.

“Is that it?  Of course it is, my friend.  You are singularly obtuse:  a woman would have seen through me at once.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Rainham, somewhat mystified.  “You mean it was a pretext?”

“It was for you that I made it,” she replied with dignity.  “What was it you came to say?”

The other was silent for a moment, cogitating.  When he looked up at last, meeting her eyes, it was with something like a shiver, in a tone of genuine dismay, that he remarked: 

“Dear lady, there are times when you terrify me.  You see too much.  It is not—­no, it is not human.  I had meant to tell you nothing.”

He stopped short, lowering his voice, and looking from the depths of his low chair into the red fire.

“It is not necessary, Philip,” she continued presently, “that you should tell me; only, if you will be so secret, you should wear smoked glasses.  Your eyes were so speaking that I was afraid—­yes, afraid—­when you came into the room.  They looked haunted; they had the air of having seen a ghost!”

“It was a very respectable ghost,” he said grimly, “with a frock-coat and a bald head.  You know Sir Egbert, I suppose?”