“I believe he is very rich,” admitted Netty, “though, of course—­”

“No, of course not,” Lady Orlay hastened to say.  “I congratulate you, and wish you every happiness.”

She turned rather abruptly towards Deulin, as if to give the next word to him.  He took it promptly.

“And I,” he said, with his old-world bow and deprecatory outspreading of the hands—­“I wish you all the happiness—­that money can buy.”

Then he walked towards the fireplace, and stood there with his shoulder turned towards them while the two ladies discussed that which was to be Netty’s future life.  Her husband would be old enough to be her father, but he was a millionaire twice over—­in London and New York.  He had, moreover, a house in each of those great cities, of which details appeared from time to time in the illustrated monthly magazines.

“So I shall hope to be in London every year,” said Netty, “and to see all the friends who have been so kind to us—­you and Lord Orlay and Mr. Deulin.”

“And Reginald Cartoner,” suggested Deulin, turning to look over his shoulder for the change which he knew would come into Netty’s eyes.  And it came.

“Yes,” she said.  She looked as if she would like to ask a question, but did not give way to the temptation.  She did not know that Cartoner was in the house at that moment, and Wanda, too.  She did not know that Deulin had brought Wanda to London to stay at Lady Orlay’s until Martin effected his escape and joined his sister in England.  She only knew what the world now knew—­that Price Martin Bukaty had died and been buried at sea.  It was very sad, she had said, he was so nice.

Deulin did not join in the conversation again.  He seemed to be interested in the fire, and Lady Orlay glanced at him once or twice, seeking to recall him to a sense of his social obligations.  He had taken an envelope from his pocket, and, having torn it in two, had thrown it on the fire, where it was smouldering now on the coals.  It was a soiled and worn envelope, as if it had passed through vicissitudes; there seemed to be something inside it which burned and gave forth an aromatic odor.

He was still watching the fire when Netty rose and took her leave.  When the door closed again Lady Orlay went towards the fire.

“What is that in which you are so deeply interested that you quite forgot to be polite?” she said to Deulin.  “Is it a letter?”

“It is a love-token,” answered the Frenchman.

“For Netty Cahere?”

“No.  For the woman that some poor fool supposed her to be.”

Lady Orlay touched the envelope with the toe of a slipper which was still neat and small, so that it fell into the glowing centre of the fire and was there consumed.

“Perhaps you have assumed a great responsibility,” she said.

“I have, and I shall carry it lightly to heaven if I get there.”

“It has a smell of violets,” said Lady Orlay, looking down into the fire.