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 compromised. But there were stories--that must be it! She had a daughter and stowed her away somewhere. No two women could be as alike as that except mother and daughter--don't see it too often at that. Why, the very way she carries her head--her _style_ . . . wonder where she kept her? That girl has been educated and has all the air of the best society. Must have got friends to adopt her. Gad! What a secret chapter. But why on earth does she let the girl run round loose?"