Borrowdean held the card in his hand, scrutinizing it with impassive face.  Was this a piece of unparalleled good fortune, or simply a trick of the fates to tempt him on to catastrophe?  With that wonderful swiftness of thought which was part of his mental equipment he balanced the chances—­and took his risk.

“I should be glad,” he said, looking the servant in the face, “if you would show the gentleman up here as an ordinary visitor.  I should like to find you down stairs when I come out.  You understand?”

“Perfectly, sir,” the man answered, and withdrew.

Mannering had no idea whose house he was in.  The address Borrowdean’s servant had given him had been simply 81, Grosvenor Square.  Nevertheless, he was conscious of a little annoyance as he followed the servant up the broad stairs.  He would much have preferred waiting until Borrowdean had concluded his call.  He remembered his grey travelling clothes, and all his natural distaste for social amenities returned with unabated force as he neared the reception-rooms and heard the softly modulated rise and fall of feminine voices, the swishing of silks and muslin, the faint perfume of flowers and scents which seemed to fill the air.  At the last moment he would have withdrawn, but his guide seemed deaf.  His words passed unheeded.  His name, very softly but very distinctly, had been announced.  He had no option but to pass into the room and play the cards which fate and his friend had dealt him.

Borrowdean rose to greet his friend.  Mannering, not knowing who his hostess might be, and feeling absolutely no curiosity concerning her, confined his attention wholly to the man whom he had come to seek.

“I did not wish to disturb you here, Borrowdean,” he said, quickly, “but if your call is over, could you come away for a few minutes?  I have a matter to discuss with you.”

Borrowdean smiled slightly, and laid his hand upon the other’s shoulder.

“By all means, Mannering,” he answered.  “But since you have discovered our little secret, don’t you think that you had better speak to our hostess?”

Mannering was puzzled, but his eyes followed Borrowdean’s slight gesture.  Berenice, who at the sound of his voice had suddenly abandoned her conversation and risen to her feet, was within a few feet of him.  A sudden light swept into Mannering’s face.

“You!” he exclaimed softly.

Her hands went out towards him.  Borrowdean, with an almost imperceptible movement, checked his advance.

“So you see we are found out, after all, Duchess,” he said, turning to her.  “You have known Mrs. Handsell, Mannering, let me present you now to her other self.  Duchess, you see that our recluse has come to his senses at last.  I must really introduce you formally:  Mr. Mannering—­the Duchess of Lenchester.”