p," she said coldly. "It's South
Belgravia, verging on Pimlico, nowadays. That is why Porthcawl is in
China ... and it explains Ducrot, too."

An unconscious bitterness crept into the smooth voice; Medenham, who
hated confidences from the butterfly type of woman, nevertheless
pitied her.

"Tell me where you live and I'll come round and hear all about it," he
said sympathetically.

She gave him an address, and suddenly smiled on him with a yearning
tenderness. She watched his tall figure as he strode down the hill
towards the town to keep an imaginary appointment.

"He used to be a nice boy," she sighed, "and now he is a man....
Heigh-ho, you're a back number, Millie, dear!"

But she was her own bright self when she returned to the bald-headed
Ducrot and the bewigged Mrs. Devar.

"What a small world it is!" she vowed. "I ran across Medenham in the
hall."

The banker's shining forehead wrinkled in a reflective frown.

"Medenham?" he said.

"Fairholme's eldest son."

Mrs. Devar chortled.

"Such fun!" she said. "Our chauffeur calls himself George Augustus
Fitzroy."

"How odd!" agreed Countess Millicent.

"You people speak in riddles. Who or what is odd?" asked Ducrot.

"Oh, don't worry, but listen to that adorable waltz." Ducrot's
polished dome compared badly with the bronzed skin of the nice boy who
had grown to be a man, so her ladyship's rebellious tongue sought
safety in silence, since she could not afford to quarrel with him.

It is certainly true that the gods make mad those whom they mean to
destroy. Never was woman nearer to a momentous discovery than Mrs.
Devar at that instant, but her active brain was plotting how best to
develop a desirable acquaintance in Roger Ducrot, financier, and she
missed utterly the astounding possibility that Viscount Medenham and
George Augustus Fitzroy might be one and the same person.

In any other conditions Millicent Porthcawl's sharp wits could
scarcely have failed to ferret out the truth. Even if Cynthia were
present it was almost a foregone conclusion that the girl would have
told how Fitzroy joined her. The luncheon provided for a missing aunt,
the crest on the silver and linen, the style of the Mercury, a chance
allusion to this somewhat remarkable chauffeur's knowledge of the
South Downs and of Bournemouth, would surely have put her ladyship on
the right track. From sheer enjoyment of an absurd situation she would
have caused Fitzroy to be summoned then a