*IN WHICH OLD LOVERS MEET, AND THE CONSPIRACY COMES TO A HEAD* [Illustration: Chapter IX headpiece] Madame knew him at a glance. To some extent she had been prepared for his coming by Jack’s previous visit. As Jack was acquainted with Sir Peter, it was quite likely Lord Otford was also, and nothing was more probable than that he should come to look up his old friend. Nevertheless this sudden confrontation startled her, and she could not suppress a little "Oh!" of surprise. Lord Otford, on his part, was too much occupied with his own anger, his outraged dignity, to pay more than very superficial attention to her. Moreover she had changed a great deal more than he. He had left her, a mere strip of a girl, and now she was a dignified and very beautiful woman. He was not thinking of Lucy Pryor at all at the moment, while her thoughts, if the truth must be told, were full of the Jack Sayle of old days. So they began their little duel with unequal weapons. Madame was absolutely self-possessed: Otford could not suppress a certain amount of nervousness in the presence of this calm and stately lady who was so utterly different from anything he had expected. However, he pulled himself together and put on his grandest and most overwhelming manner. "I am the trespasser," he said, with a condescending bow, in answer to her startled cry. She inclined her head very slightly, and turned to go. "May I detain you a moment?" said he, quickly. She stopped and half turned towards him. "I am at a loss—" she said coldly, with raised eyebrows. He explained. "I heard you calling your daughter." Then, very stiffly, "I presume you are Madame—ah—" he made pretence to consult the anonymous letter; this haughty person should know she was not of sufficient importance for him even to remember her name, "Madame Lachesnais." Madame bowed almost imperceptibly and something very like a mischievous smile lurked in the corners of her lips. "I am Lord Otford—" he gave his name quite simply, as a gentleman should, yet he managed to convey that it was a great name and that he expected the announcement of it to make its effect. Madame made a slight movement with her hand as if she were brushing away something of no moment whatever; as if she declined to receive a name which could have no importance for her; as if she did n’t care whether his name were Otford or Snooks. This disconcerted him. It was a new experience, and it was unpleasant. For the sake of something to say he pointed to the seat under the tree. "Ah—pray be seated." Madame saw the advantage she had already gained. She spoke as she might have addressed a poor beetle: "What you have to say can be of so little consequence—"