“Indeed!”

“I wondered whether you might not know him?”

“Yes, I know him.”

“And in connection with this man,” Brott continued, “I have something in the nature of a confession to make.  I forgot for a moment your request.  I even mentioned your name.”

The pallor had spread to her cheeks, even to her lips.  Yet her eyes were soft and brilliant, so brilliant that they fascinated him.

“What did he say?  What did he ask?”

“He asked for your address.  Don’t be afraid.  I made some excuse.  I did not give it.”

For the life of him he could not tell whether she was pleased or disappointed.  She had turned her shoulder to him.  She was looking steadily out of the window, and he could not see her face.

“Why are you curious about him?” she asked.

“I wish I knew.  I think only because he came from Lenox.”

She turned her face slowly round towards him.  He was astonished to see the dark rings under her eyes, the weariness of her smile.

“The Duke of Souspennier,” she said slowly, “is an old and a dear friend of mine.  When you tell me that he is in London I am anxious because there are many here who are not his friends—­who have no cause to love him.”

“I was wrong then,” he said, “not to give him your address.”

“You were right,” she answered.  “I am anxious that he should not know it.  You will remember this?” He rose and bowed over her hand.

“This has been a selfish interlude,” he said.  “I have destroyed your rest, and I almost fear that I have also disturbed your peace of mind.  Let me take my leave and pray that you may recover both.”

She shook her head.

“Do not leave me,” she said.  “I am low-spirited.  You shall stay and cheer me.”

There was a light in his eyes which few people would have recognised.  She rose with a little laugh and stood leaning towards the fire, her elbow upon the broad mantel, tall, graceful, alluring.  Her soft crimson gown, with its wealth of old lace, fell around her in lines and curves full of grace.  The pallor of her face was gone now—­the warmth of the fire burned her cheeks.  Her voice became softer.

“Sit down and talk to me,” she murmured.  “Do you remember the old days, when you were a very timid young secretary of Sir George Nomsom, and I was a maid-of-honour at the Viennese Court?  Dear me, how you have changed!”

“Time,” he said, “will not stand still for all of us.  Yet my memory tells me how possible it would be—­for indeed those days seem but as yesterday.”

He looked up at her with a sudden jealousy.  His tone shook with passion.  No one would have recognised Brott now.  In his fiercest hour of debate, his hour of greatest trial, he had worn his mask, always master of himself and his speech.  And now he had cast it off.  His eyes were hungry, his lips twitched.