s did at the same age.

Mr. Dinwiddie's countenance as a rule was as formal and politely
expressionless as became his dignified status, but tonight it was not.
It was pallid. The rather prominent eyes were staring, the mouth was
relaxed. He was seated next the aisle and Clavering hastened toward
him in alarm.

"Ill, old chap?" he asked. "Better come out."

Mr. Dinwiddie focussed his eyes, then stumbled to his feet and caught
Clavering by the arm. "Yes," he muttered. "Get me out of this and
take me where I can get a drink. Seen a ghost."

Clavering guided him up the aisle, then out of a side exit into an
alley and produced a flask from his hip-pocket. Mr. Dinwiddie without
ceremony raised it to his lips and swallowed twice, gasping a little.
He had reached the age of the mild whiskey and soda. Then he stood
erect and passed his hand over the shining curve of his head.

"Ever seen a ghost, Lee?" he asked. "That woman was there, wasn't she?"

"She was there, all right." Clavering's face was no longer cynical and
mysterious; it was alive with curiosity. "D'you know who she is?"

"Thirty-odd years ago any one of us old chaps would have told you she
was Mary Ogden, and like as not raised his hat. She was the beauty and
the belle of her day. But she married a Hungarian diplomat, Count
Zattiany, when she was twenty-four, and deserted us. Never been in the
country since. I never wanted to see her again. Too hard hit. But I
caught a glimpse of her at the opera in Paris about ten years
ago--faded! Always striking of course with that style, but withered,
changed, skinny where she had been slim, her throat concealed by a dog
collar a yard long--her expression sad and apathetic--the dethroned
idol of men. God! Mary Ogden! I left the house."

"It is her daughter, of course----"

"Never had a child--positive of it. Zattiany title went to a nephew
who was killed in the war. . . . No . . . it must be . . . must
be . . ." His eyes began to glitter. Clavering knew the symptom. His
relative was about to impart interesting gossip.

"Well?" he asked impatiently.

"There were many stories about Mary Ogden--Mary Zattiany--always a
notable figure in the capitals of Europe. Her husband was in the
diplomatic service until he died--some years before I saw her in Paris.
She was far too clever--damnably clever, Mary Ogden, and had a
reputation for it in European Society as well as for beauty--to get
herself com