For a wild second he thought that all had been discovered, that the police were now sure to arrive. Then he knew at once. Nothing had been discovered, the delusion held even for this woman, that glance was meant for Rochester, not for him, and was caused by the affair of last night, by other things, too, maybe, but that surely. Uncomfortable, angry, nervous, wild to escape, and then yielding to caution, he took his seat at the table where a place was laid--evidently for him. The woman had left an envelope on the table, he glanced at it. THE HONBLE: VENETIA BIRDBROOK, 10A Carlton House Terrace, London, S. W. Victor read the inscription written in a bold female hand. It told him where he was, he was in the breakfast-room of 10A Carlton House Terrace, but it told him nothing more. Was the Honble: Venetia Birdbrook his wife, or at least the wife of his twin image? This thought blinded him for a moment to the fact that a flunkey--they seemed as numerous as flies in May--was at his elbow with a _menu_, whilst another flunkey, who seemed to have sprung from the floor, was fiddling at the sideboard which contained cold edibles, tongue, ham, chicken and so forth. "Scrambled eggs," said he, looking at the card. "Tea or coffee, my Lord?" "Coffee." He broke a breakfast roll and helped himself mechanically to some butter, which was instantly presented to him by the sideboard fiddler, and he had just taken a mechanical bite of buttered roll, when the door opened and the Archiepiscopal gentleman who had pulled up his window blind that morning entered. Mr. Church, for Jones had already gathered that to be his name, carried a little yellow basket filled with letters in his right hand, and in his left a great sheaf, The Times, Daily Telegraph, Morning Post, Daily Mail, Daily Express, Chronicle, and Daily News. These papers he placed on a side table evidently intended for that purpose. The little letter basket he placed on the table at Jones' left elbow. Then he withdrew, but not without having spoken a couple of murmured words of correction to the flunkey near the sideboard, who had omitted, no doubt, some point in the mysterious ritual of which he was an acolyte. Jones glanced at the topmost letter. THE EARL OF ROCHESTER, 10A, Carlton House Terrace, London, S. W. Ah! now he knew it. The true name of the juggler who had played him this trick. It was plain, too, now, that Rochester had sent him here as a substitute. But the confirmation of his idea did not ease his mind. On the contrary it filled him with a vague alarm. The feeling of being in a trap came upon him now for the first time. The joke had lost any semblance of colour, the thing was serious. Rochester ought to have been back to put an end to the business before this. Had anything happened to him? Had he got jailed?