“I simply cannot bring myself to believe it,” she declared. “Come, I'll challenge you. When did we meet last?” “At Worcester House,” was the prompt reply. “I came to say good-bye to you.” The Duchess was a little staggered. Her eyes softened, a faint smile played at the corners of her lips. She was suddenly a very attractive looking woman. “You came to say good-bye,” she repeated, “and?” “I am to take that as a challenge?” Dominey asked, standing very upright and looking her in the eyes. “As you will.” “You were a little kinder to me,” he continued, “than you are to-day. You gave me--this,” he added, drawing a small picture from his pocketbook, “and you permitted--” “For heaven's sake, put that thing away,” she cried, “and don't say another word! There's my grown-up nephew, St. Omar, paying his bill almost within earshot. Come and see me at half-past three this afternoon, and don't be a minute late. And, St. Omar,” she went on, turning to the young man who stood now by her side, “this is a connection of yours--Sir Everard Dominey. He is a terrible person, but do shake hands with him and come along. I am half an hour late for my dressmaker already.” Lord St. Omar chuckled vaguely, then shook hands with his new-found relative, nodded affably to the lawyer and followed his aunt out of the room. Mangan's expression was beatific. “Sir Everard,” he exclaimed, “God bless you! If ever a woman got what she deserved! I've seen a duchess blush--first time in my life!” CHAPTER V Worcester House was one of those semi-palatial residences set down apparently for no reason whatever in the middle of Regent's Park. It had been acquired by a former duke at the instigation of the Regent, who was his intimate friend, and retained by later generations in mute protest against the disfiguring edifices which had made a millionaire's highway of Park Lane. Dominey, who was first scrutinised by an individual in buff waistcoat and silk hat at the porter's lodge, was interviewed by a major-domo in the great stone hall, conducted through an extraordinarily Victorian drawing-room by another myrmidon in a buff waistcoat, and finally ushered into a tiny little boudoir leading out of a larger apartment and terminating in a conservatory filled with sweet-smelling exotics. The Duchess, who was reclining in an easy-chair, held out her hand, which her visitor raised to his lips. She motioned him to a seat by her side and once more scrutinised him with unabashed intentness. “There's something wrong about you, you know,” she declared. “That seems very unfortunate,” he rejoined, “when I return to find you wholly unchanged.” “Not bad,” she remarked critically. “All the same, I have changed. I am not in the least in love with you any longer.” “It was the fear of that change in you,” he sighed, “which kept me for so long in the furthest corners of the world.” She looked at him with a severity which was obviously assumed.