nt of it. His hands,
white and thin and tapering, waved now. His eyes were on fire. As they
walked up Bond Street one might have imagined air-bladders at his
armpits, Mercury's wings at his heels. The quiet evening air was charged
with him.

"Well," said Arkwright, smiling and looking down at his companion. "Who
are they all?"

"Lady Adela Beaminster, Rachel Beaminster, Christopher----"

"Christopher?"

"Dr. Christopher, the Harley Street man. He's the Duchess' doctor, has
been for years. The girl was the Duchess' granddaughter--Lady Adela's
niece."

"Well?"

"The girl's coming out in three days' time. They're giving a ball in
Portland Place for her. Nobody knows much about her. She's been educated
abroad, and always kept very close when she's here. I shouldn't think
the old Duchess loves her much. She loved the girl's father, but he
married a Russian actress, bolted to Russia with her, and the old lady
never forgave him. He and the actress were both killed in a Petersburg
fire, and the child was sent home--only tiny then----"

"Ah! that explains the foreign air she had. She didn't look as though
she loved her aunt very much either."

"No--don't suppose she does. But that's not it--that's not it."

They had arrived now at the top of Bond Street, and they paused for a
moment to allow the Oxford Street traffic to sweep past them.

It was an hour of stir and clatter--hansoms, carts, lumbering omnibuses,
bicycles, all were hurled along as though by some impatient hand, and
the evening light crept higher and higher along the walls of the street,
leaving grey-purple shadows beneath it.

They crossed over, and were instantly in a dim, golden, voiceless
square. It was as though a door had been closed.

Brun still held Arkwright's arm. "Now we can talk--no noise. Francis
Breton has come back."

To Arkwright this name, unfortunately, conveyed nothing.

"You don't know?" Brun was disappointed.

"Never heard of him."

"Fancy that. World of wonders; what have you been doing with your time?
He is the Duchess's grandson, son of the beautiful, the wonderful Iris
Beaminster, who eloped with Kit Breton thirty years ago. I believe the
old Duchess pursued her relentlessly until the end. They were married
only a few years and then Iris Breton committed suicide. Kit Breton beat
her and was always drunk; an absolute rascal. There was one boy, and he
wandered about Europe with his father until he was twenty or so. Then
Ki