Not realizing that the subject had been changed, George was under the impression that the other had shifted his front and was about to attack him from another angle.  He countered what seemed to him an insinuation stoutly.

“We merely happened to meet at the castle.  She came there quite independently of me.”

Lord Marshmoreton looked alarmed.  “You didn’t know her?” he said anxiously.

“Certainly I knew her.  She is an old friend of mine.  But if you are hinting . . .”

“Not at all,” rejoined the earl, profoundly relieved.  “Not at all.  I ask merely because this young lady, with whom I had some conversation, was good enough to give me her name and address.  She, too, happened to mistake me for a gardener.”

“It’s those corduroy trousers,” murmured George in extenuation.

“I have unfortunately lost them.”

“You can always get another pair.”

“Eh?”

“I say you can always get another pair of corduroy trousers.”

“I have not lost my trousers.  I have lost the young lady’s name and address.”

“Oh!”

“I promised to send her some roses.  She will be expecting them.”

“That’s odd.  I was just reading a letter from her when you came in.  That must be what she’s referring to when she says, ’If you see dadda, the old dear, tell him not to forget my roses.’  I read it three times and couldn’t make any sense out of it.  Are you Dadda?”

The earl smirked.  “She did address me in the course of our conversation as dadda.”

“Then the message is for you.”

“A very quaint and charming girl.  What is her name?  And where can I find her?”

“Her name’s Billie Dore.”

“Billie?”

“Billie.”

“Billie!” said Lord Marshmoreton softly.  “I had better write it down.  And her address?”

“I don’t know her private address.  But you could always reach her at the Regal Theatre.”

“Ah!  She is on the stage?”

“Yes.  She’s in my piece, ’Follow the Girl’.”

“Indeed!  Are you a playwright, Mr. Bevan?”

“Good Lord, no!” said George, shocked.  “I’m a composer.”

“Very interesting.  And you met Miss Dore through her being in this play of yours?”

“Oh, no.  I knew her before she went on the stage.  She was a stenographer in a music-publisher’s office when we first met.”

“Good gracious!  Was she really a stenographer?”

“Yes.  Why?”

“Oh—­ah—­nothing, nothing.  Something just happened to come to my mind.”

What happened to come into Lord Marshmoreton’s mind was a fleeting vision of Billie installed in Miss Alice Faraday’s place as his secretary.  With such a helper it would be a pleasure to work on that infernal Family History which was now such a bitter toil.  But the day-dream passed.  He knew perfectly well that he had not the courage to dismiss Alice.  In the hands of that calm-eyed girl he was as putty.  She exercised over him the hypnotic spell a lion-tamer exercises over his little playmates.