reet corner he looked at the name of the street. It was
Curzon street. Then he walked home.

Come what might he had done a good evening's work. More than ever did he
feel the charm of this woman, her loyalty, her power of honest love.

What a woman! and what a fate!

It was at this moment, whilst walking home to Carlton House Terrace,
that the true character of Rochester appeared before him in a new and
lurid light.

Up to this Rochester had appeared to him mad, tricky, irresponsible, but
up to this he had not clearly seen the villainy of Rochester. The woman
showed it. Rochester had picked up a stranger, because of the mutual
likeness, and sent him home to play his part, hoping, no doubt, to have
a ghastly hit at his family. What about his wife? He had either never
thought of her, or he had not cared.

And such a wife!

"That fellow ought to be dug up and--cremated," said Jones to himself as
he opened the door with his latch key. "He ought, sure. Well, I hope
I'll cremate his reputation to-morrow."

Having smoked a cigar he went upstairs and to bed.

He had been trying to think of how he would open the business on the
morrow, of what he would say to start with--then he gave up the attempt,
determining to leave everything to the inspiration of the moment.

CHAPTER XX

THE FAMILY COUNCIL

He arrived at Curzon Street at fifteen minutes after nine next morning,
and was shown up to the drawing-room by the butler. Here he took his
seat, and waited the coming of the Family, amusing himself as best he
could by looking round at the furniture and pictures, and listening to
the sounds of the house and the street outside.

He heard taxi horns, the faint rumble of wheels, voices.

Now he heard someone running up the stairs outside, a servant probably,
for the sound suddenly ceased and was followed by a laugh as though two
servants had met on the stairs and were exchanging words.

One could not imagine any of that terrible family running up the stairs
lightly or laughing. Then after another minute or two the door opened
and the Duke of Melford entered. He was in light tweeds with a buff
waistcoat, he held a morning paper under his arm and was polishing his
eye glasses.

He nodded at Jones.

"Morning," said his grace, waddling to a chair and taking his seat. "The
women will be up in a moment." He took his seat and spread open the
paper as if to glance at the news. Then looking up over his spectacles,
"Gla