“That puppy is in his glory now,” observed Coverdale, snappishly; “I dare say that silly woman will take him at his own price, and believe in him to any extent to which he may like to lead her--perhaps marry him after all, and make him Count von Rosenthal: that would suit his complaint exactly, the fortune-hunting young humbug!” “My dear Harry, what words!” exclaimed Alice. “You are really quite savage to-day; I shall be obliged to take Mr. D’Almayne under my protection, if you go on so.” “No need to do that, my dear,” returned Harry, his face resuming its usual bright, kind expression, as his glance fell upon his wife; “your _protégé_ is quite certain to take the best possible care of himself--now come along;” and in another five minutes they had left the vessel and entered a railroad-carriage, in which the Countess and D’Almayne had already established themselves. The journey to London was a very agreeable one;--the Countess, having recovered with marvellous celerity the moment she placed her pretty little foot on _terra firma_, exerted herself to make up for lost time, and succeeded so well that D’Almayne, who became more and more _empressé_ and devoted every moment, determined, if he should be able to ascertain beyond a doubt that her fortune was as large as it had been represented, to give up every other speculation, and devote all his energies to secure the hand and purse of this fascinating foreigner. As they approached the London Bridge terminus the Countess, turning to her new guardian, inquired whether it was very far to Park Lane: “About half an hour’s drive. The carriage will, I trust, be there to meet this train; though, owing to our having avoided all delay at the Custom-house, we shall be in town some two hours sooner than the other steam-boat passengers. However, if we arrive earlier than is expected, it will only be an agreeable surprise to our kind friend, Mrs. Botherby.” “_Mais oui!_” returned the Countess with a look of innocent perplexity; “and who may be _cette chere_ Madame Bodairebie?” “Mrs. Botherby, my dear Countess,” returned D’Almayne, who began to think his charming friend must be slightly insane, “Mrs. Botherby--the Honourable Mrs. Botherby--is the lady who obtained for me the pleasure of rendering you this slight service.” “_Quelle drôle de chose_. I shall not know some Mrs. Bodairebie no veres,” was the astounding reply. “But--but--” stammered D’Almayne, as an idea occurred to him sufficiently alarming to surprise him out of his usual _sang froid_, “excuse me--but surely you _are_ the Countess Bertha von Rosenthal?”