Lord Carthew waited for her to have time to proceed to her room before entering himself, and after asking at the office for an imaginary friend, inquired the name of the lady who had just entered. “That, sir, is Viscountess Carthew. She was only married three or four days ago, and she is waiting here until her husband, who is detained in the country on urgent private affairs, joins her.” There was something embarrassed about the clerk’s manner. Evidently he was of opinion that the new Viscountess Carthew was a lady whose exact position needed explaining. “I am Lord Carthew,” said Claud, quietly. “Lady Carthew is suffering from the effects of recent brain fever.” “Indeed, sir!” The man looked polite but incredulous. “We understood, my lord,” he went on, “that the lady was the daughter of Sir Philip Cranstoun, who has visited this hotel several times. We therefore communicated with him last night on the subject of Lady Carthew. We thought ourselves that she seemed--ill.” From the curious emphasis which the man laid on the words, Lord Carthew guessed that his wife had already gained an unenviable notoriety by her behavior in the establishment. There was a look of evident relief on the face of the manager of the hotel, to whom the clerk communicated the news that Lord Carthew had arrived to join his bride. Claud noted this, being hypersensitive on the subject, and he smarted with an indignant sense of injury as he followed an attendant up the wide marble stairs to Lady Carthew’s rooms on the first floor. The apartment into which the unhappy bridegroom was shown was a palatially furnished drawing room. On a side-table several bottles of champagne were standing, and at the moment when Lord Carthew entered, a vapid and vicious-looking youth, of the ordinary “stage-door loafer” type, was drinking the health of the lady, whose name he mentioned in loud, drawling tones as he drained his glass. “Here’s Lady Carthew’s health, and my love to her! Lady Carthew,” he repeated, raising his voice louder, so as to be heard by the occupant of the adjoining room, “do hurry up, there’s a good soul. We’re boring ourselves dreadfully without you.” “We” consisted of another youth of much the same calibre, and of a stout, florid, dark man of foreign appearance, whom his companions addressed as “Count.” By the table stood Stephen Lee, opening another bottle of champagne, his face set in a sullen frown of disapproval. “I say, Count,” drawled the youth who sprawled on the sofa, “hope you travel with your stiletto up your sleeve. Lady Carthew’s man here has such a confoundedly cut-throat look that he makes me quite nervous.” The noise of the door closing made the youth turn his head. At sight of Lord Carthew he stared superciliously. “Hullo! Here’s another chap to luncheon! Quite a party we shall be. Ah, here she is at last, lookin’ rippin’, positively rippin’!”