“Gordon Selsbury! Do you imagine Gordon Selsbury would bring a woman to this house furtively? Do you imagine he would come dressed like a third-class comedian? Never dare mention Mr. Selsbury’s name again in my presence!” Gordon opened and closed his mouth, but no words came. “You will stay here until I give you permission to go.” She went to the garden gate, closed and slammed it, then came back to Gordon. “You had a key? Give it to me,” she said curtly. Gordon obeyed, lamb-like, watching her as she double-locked the door. And then he made his last desperate attempt. “Diana, I can explain everything,” he said hoarsely. “I am--the fact is--I’ll tell you the truth. I was going abroad, and the fact is, I am Gordon, although I may not seem so. I admit I’m wearing the most disgustingly loud suit, and that I have in other ways changed my appearance, but that also can be explained.” There was a knock on the panel of the door. “Wait,” said Diana, and walked backward to the entrance. “Who is it?” “Eleanor, madam. A telegram.” “Push it under the door.” An orange envelope came into sight, and, picking it up, she tore away the cover and read the form. “Go on,” she signalled to Gordon. “You say you are Gordon Selsbury? Tell me some more. But before you do so, listen to this: “‘Just leaving Euston. Take care of yourself. Gordon.’ “Now there need be no deception on either side. Open your heart to me, little man. Who are you--Gordon Selsbury or Double Dan?” “Anything!” The wail of the damned. “Gordon Selsbury or Double Dan?” she demanded inexorably. He threw out his hands. “Double Dan,” snarled Gordon. Of the two alternative rôles, this seemed the more creditable. CHAPTER XIII He had never seen anybody as scared as Heloise was; that was the one clear impression which Gordon carried away from the interview. She, the self-possessed woman of the world, a soul, one superior to the lesser grades of humanity, seemed to have cowered and shrunk under the domination of Diana’s baleful eye. Gordon sighed, tied his baize apron a little tighter round his waist, and wondered where Trenter kept his stock of plate powder. On the whole, it was good that Trenter was away, and that he was spared the sight of his master’s humiliation. If indeed it was a humiliation to be thrust into an ill-lit pantry with instructions to clean the silver, and be ready at a moment’s notice to make himself presentable. Gordon tried again and attacked a cream-jug half-heartedly. His hands were not designed for housework. Yet he would as soon have thought of cutting his throat with a fruit knife (half-a-dozen of which awaited his attention) as disobey Diana’s imperious gesture which had sent him off to the pantry to clean silver.