“And also, I hope,” Dominey rejoined, smiling a little seriously and with a curious glint in his eyes, “upon what I may yet accomplish.”

The Duchess and her companion had risen to their feet, and the former, on her way out, recognising her solicitor, paused graciously.

“How do you do, Mr. Mangan?” she said.  “I hope you are looking after those troublesome tenants of mine in Leicestershire?”

“We shall make our report in due course, Duchess,” Mangan assured her.  “Will you permit me,” he added, “to bring back to your memory a relative who has just returned from abroad—­Sir Everard Dominey?”

Dominey had risen to his feet a moment previously and now extended his hand.  The Duchess, who was a tall, graceful woman, with masses of fair hair only faintly interspersed with gray, very fine brown eyes, the complexion of a girl, and, to quite her own confession, the manners of a kitchen maid, stared at him for a moment without any response.

“Sir Everard Dominey?” she repeated.  “Everard?  Ridiculous!”

Dominey’s extended hand was at once withdrawn, and the tentative smile faded from his lips.  The lawyer plunged into the breach.

“I can assure your Grace,” he insisted earnestly, “that there is no doubt whatever about Sir Everard’s identity.  He only returned from Africa during the last few days.”

The Duchess’s incredulity remained, wholly good-natured but ministered to by her natural obstinacy.

“I simply cannot bring myself to believe it,” she declared.  “Come, I’ll challenge you.  When did we meet last?”

“At Worcester House,” was the prompt reply.  “I came to say good-bye to you.”

The Duchess was a little staggered.  Her eyes softened, a faint smile played at the corners of her lips.  She was suddenly a very attractive looking woman.

“You came to say good-bye,” she repeated, “and?”

“I am to take that as a challenge?” Dominey asked, standing very upright and looking her in the eyes.

“As you will.”

“You were a little kinder to me,” he continued, “than you are to-day.  You gave me—­this,” he added, drawing a small picture from his pocketbook, “and you permitted—­”

“For heaven’s sake, put that thing away,” she cried, “and don’t say another word!  There’s my grown-up nephew, St. Omar, paying his bill almost within earshot.  Come and see me at half-past three this afternoon, and don’t be a minute late.  And, St. Omar,” she went on, turning to the young man who stood now by her side, “this is a connection of yours—­Sir Everard Dominey.  He is a terrible person, but do shake hands with him and come along.  I am half an hour late for my dressmaker already.”

Lord St. Omar chuckled vaguely, then shook hands with his new-found relative, nodded affably to the lawyer and followed his aunt out of the room.  Mangan’s expression was beatific.

“Sir Everard,” he exclaimed, “God bless you!  If ever a woman got what she deserved!  I’ve seen a duchess blush—­first time in my life!”