"That she should not have married you, I mean, instead of that bounder Darcy. I have heard his name more than once in official circles, and there's precious little to be said in his favour. But his wife--ah, there's a woman any man might be proud to marry. Such beauty, such refinement, so much reserve. Rather a contrast to our fascinating Belle, eh?" "I have the greatest respect for Miss Fitzgerald," said the Secretary stiffly. "Yes, but not of the marriageable quality," said the Lieutenant, speaking _ex cathedra_ as one who had also been in the fair Irish girl's train. "Oh no, my dear fellow, a woman of Madame Darcy's type is the woman for you. The Fitzgerald, believe me, would break a man's heart or his bank account, in no time." "Look here," said Stanley shortly, "I don't like that sort of thing." "Don't turn nasty, old chap," said Kingsland. "I'm only speaking for your good. I'd be the last man to run down a woman. I love the whole sex, and the little Fitzgerald is no end jolly, to play with, but to marry--! By the way, have you heard of her latest exploit. The town's ringing with it. She----" "Thanks, I'd rather not hear it," replied the Secretary, who just now was trying to forget some phases of her nature. "By Jove!" broke in the Lieutenant--"speaking of angels--there she is now." "What, down in this section of the city?" "Yes, in a hansom cab." "An angel in a hansom!" cried the Secretary, "that's certainly a combination worth seeing," and rising, he stepped to the window, followed by Kingsland. The two men were just in time to see the lady in question dash by along the Embankment, and to note that she was not alone. Indeed, even the fleeting glimpse which they caught of her companion was sufficiently startling to engrave his likeness indelibly on their minds. He was an oldish man, of say sixty, clad in a nondescript grey suit of no distinguishable style or date, surmounted by a soft felt hat of the type which distinguished Americans are said to affect in London, while his high cheek bones and prominent nose might have given him credit for having Indian blood in his veins, had not his dead white skin belied the charge. He was possessed, moreover, of huge bushy brows, beneath which a ferret's keen eyes peeped out, and were never for an instant still. "Gad!" exclaimed the Lieutenant, "this promises to be the strangest escapade of all." "Who the devil is he?" demanded Stanley, facing around, with almost an accusing note in his voice. The Lieutenant returned his glance squarely. "Why, he's the man who gave her--I mean, who was talking to her last night at the Hyde Park Club." "Last night? I don't remember seeing him." "It was when you were waltzing up and down stairs in search of a chaperon." "Who is he?" "Don't know, I'm sure," replied the Lieutenant brusquely, lighting a cigarette, and thrusting his hands in his trousers' pockets. "But you must have some idea?"