"So I think," she went on, "that if they are at Basingstoke, they will be here in a few hours. I told them all about your arrest and where I was staying." "So far so good. Allingford can identify me even to the satisfaction of this magistrate, I think. But it is just as well to have two strings to one's bow, so I have another plan to suggest; but first let me hear if you have done anything else." "No; but I think I shall telegraph to my mother. I can't spend another night here alone." "Why don't you wait and see if your husband does not turn up? I hate to give our affairs more publicity than is necessary," he suggested. "Would you prefer me to do so?" "Yes, very much; if you don't mind." "Then I will. I think, after my share in this unfortunate business, you ought to have the first consideration. Now tell me your plan." "I propose that we telegraph to your husband's best man, Jack Carrington, asking him to come to Winchester this evening. He can identify me, and identify himself also, for he has a brother who is an officer in one of the regiments stationed here." "Just the thing!" she cried. "I'll send it at once." "No," replied Scarsdale. "You write it and I'll send it." He did not wish any more of his plans to be revealed to Faro Charlie. CHAPTER VIII IN WHICH A SERIOUS CHARGE IS LAID AT THE CONSUL'S DOOR Jack Carrington, Esquire, Gentleman, sat in his snug little sitting-room, in one of the side streets of Mayfair, shortly before seven in the evening, feeling uncommonly blue. He was, without doubt, in a most unfortunate position. Born and bred a gentleman; educated to do nothing, yet debarred by lack of family influence from the two professions he might properly have entered, the army and the diplomatic corps; with not quite enough money to support his position as a bachelor, and no hopes of ever having any more, the outlook, matrimonially at least, was anything but encouraging, and there was a lady--with whose existence this narrative has no concern--who, had fortune smiled, might now be Mrs. Carrington: a possibility which had brought our quondam best man almost to the point of determining, according to those false standards which are happily fast passing away from English society, to be no longer a _gentleman_, but to go into trade. Such, then, was his condition when the door-bell rang, and a moment later a card was brought to him bearing the name of Lady Scarsdale. He looked at it, scarcely believing his eyes. How came it that she should call on him at an hour so strikingly unconventional? It was therefore with no little bewilderment that he gave orders to have her shown in.