“Something more than that,” Greetland returned, with all the superiority of the man who knows. “A good many people knew that much already. You see, after Blaydon’s death, when she felt they were safe, the dear Duchess allowed herself to be a little indiscreet, of course only in her own set.” His tone included himself by implication in the select band who shared the ducal secret. De Daun saw it was no use trying to hurry him, and worked off his impatience by pulling viciously at his moustache. “What I am going to tell you,” Greetland proceeded, “happened only a day or two ago. They were doing something to the little room where Beauty was found dead, just off the ball-room, putting up new cornices or something--not before they were wanted, they say the curtains at Vaux House were hung in Queen Anne’s time; probably the poles date from the Conquest--well, in pulling the old window trappings about, the men found a long jewelled hair-pin, a tiny sword, the hilt set in diamonds and with the point broken off.” “By Jove!” exclaimed Sir Perrott. “They found this in the cornice?” de Daun asked intently. It was important for him to get the story correctly. “Somewhere stuck away in the curtains or behind the shutter; anyhow, hidden by the window.” “And who found it? A workman, eh?” “One of the Duke’s men.” “And what is to be the upshot?” Mrs. Hargrave’s turn of mind was practical and anticipatory. “Well, the whole thing will come out,” Greetland asserted. “No? Be made public?” Lady Rotherfield was dead against the publicity of to-day. A scandal to which the mob had access lost all its piquancy and was not worth discussing. The world was becoming less interesting every hour. “To-morrow,” Greetland confidently affirmed, “the man in the street will know as much of the affair as we do.” Lady Rotherfield gave a shrug of despair. The world where the man in the street is as well posted as the Duchess in the Square was scarcely worth living in. “Then the Duke can’t hush it up this time, eh?” de Daun demanded, showing his malicious teeth. “No,” Greetland purred on. “He is in an awful way about it, and the Duchess is having a bad time.” “Poor woman!” cried Mrs. Hargrave with cynical sympathy.