“You remember,” Greetland proceeded, still deliberately--on his own ground it took more than the representative of a second-rate power to flurry him--“you remember the affair of poor Beauty Martindale?” “Oh, yes; the poor fellow who died so tragically at the ball at--where was it? Yes?” To Lady Rotherfield details were unimportant; but to Greetland they had their value. “Vaux House,” he supplied. “Yes? yes?” “Let’s see. He was supposed to have died of heart disease, but it was doubted----” “There was no doubt about it,” de Daun asserted quickly. The subject was too interesting for more diplomatic contradiction. “Of course,” corroborated Sir Perrott Aspall, who had been in Australia at the time and was consequently well qualified to give an authoritative dictum. “He was murdered, done to death by one of his partners, eh? That’s the idea.” “I recollect,” put in Mrs. Hargrave breathlessly. “Half the smart women in town were suspected.” “Many of whom were not at the dance,” de Daun laughed. “It’s years ago,” Lady Rotherfield said, as an excuse for general vagueness. “Well, what of it? What has come to light?” the Baron demanded. “Get on, my dear fellow, if you have anything to tell us.” Greetland, master of the situation, was content to wait till the chatter stopped. “The facts were these. Reggie Martindale, the handsomest man in town, was found dead at the Lancashires’ dance. You are quite right, dear lady, it was at first supposed and given out that it was heart disease. Then, almost by accident, and after the certificate had been given, a tiny wound, scarcely bigger than a pin-prick, was found in his left side near the heart. That was hushed up; luckily the Lancashires’ medico, who found it out, happened to be Martindale’s as well, and so had the matter in his own hands; and naturally the Duchess did not want a scandal. It was said that Dr. Blaydon handed the Duke three-eights of an inch of broken steel which he had found imbedded in poor Beauty’s heart, and received in return a cheque which established a record price for the metal. But old Blaydon knew himself to be a dying man at the time; an _exposé_ could hardly hurt him, and he had a large family to provide for. As a matter of fact he died a few months afterwards, to the dear Duchess’s great content. It’s extraordinary how fussy some good people can be over the idea of a scandal.” “You see,” observed Mrs. Hargrave, “the Duchess does not require advertisement for herself or her dances.” “If it had been that terrible Oglander woman, now, she would have paid the doctor to call in the Coroner, and sent out invitations for the inquest, with reserved seats and champagne for the Press.” Lady Rotherfield never missed an opportunity, even when she was in a hurry, of girding at her especial abomination among the many parvenues who beset her path. “Well? well?” Baron de Daun’s sharp voice split the air like the crack of a whip. “And now, after all, the affair has come out, eh?”