“On the face of it—­no,” replied Jennings doubtfully, “but there is a link—­”

“Ah, you mean that she is Emilia’s niece.”

“Not exactly that,” answered Jennings, thinking of the photograph.  “I will tell you what I mean when we next meet.”

At this moment, in response to the imperative beckoning of Maraquito’s fan, Caranby was compelled to go to her.  The couch had been wheeled away from the green table, and a gentleman had taken charge of the bank.  Maraquito with her couch retreated to a quiet corner of the room, and had a small table placed beside her.  Here were served champagne and cakes, while Lord Caranby, after bowing in his old-fashioned way, took a seat near the beautiful woman.  She gazed smilingly at Lord Caranby, yet there was a nervous look in her eyes.

“I have heard of you from Mr. Mallow,” she said flushing.

“My nephew.  He comes here at times.  Indeed,” said Caranby gallantly, “it was his report of your beauty that brought me here to-night.”

Maraquito sighed.  “The wreck of a beauty,” said she bitterly, “three years ago indeed—­but I met with an accident.”

“So I heard.  A piece of orange peel.”

The woman started.  “Who told you that?”

“I heard it indirectly from a professor of dancing.  You were a dancer, I believe?”

“Scarcely that,” said Senora Gredos, nervously playing with her fan; “I was learning.  It was Le Beau who told you?”

“Indirectly,” responded Caranby.

“I should like to know,” said Maraquito deliberately, “who has taken the trouble to tell you this.  My life—­the life of a shattered invalid—­can scarcely interest anyone.”

“I really forget to whom I am indebted for the information,” said Lord Caranby mendaciously, “and a lady of your beauty must always interest men while they have eyes to see.  I have seen ladies like you in Andalusia, but no one so lovely.  Let me see, was it in Andalusia or Jerusalem?” mused Lord Caranby.

“I am a Spanish Jewess,” said Maraquito, quickly and uneasily, “I have only been in London five years.”

“And met with an accident a year or two after you arrived,” murmured Caranby; “how very sad.”

Maraquito did not know what to make of the ironical old gentleman.  It seemed to her that he was hostile, but she could take no offence at what he said.  Moreover, as he was Mallow’s uncle, she did not wish to quarrel with him.  With a graceful gesture she indicated a glass of champagne.  “Will you not drink to our better acquaintance?”

“Certainly,” said Caranby without emotion, and sipped a few drops of the golden-colored wine.  “I hope to see much of you.”

“I reciprocate the hope,” said Maraquito radiantly, “and I’ll tell you a secret.  I have been consulting specialists, and I find that in a few months I shall be able to walk as well as ever I did.”

“Excellent news,” said Caranby, “I hope you will.”