“Ah! How thrilling!” If the speaker were really thrilled the mobile face must surely have indicated it more vividly. A wave of interest passed across it; the dark curves of the eyebrows rose and fell, that was all. Dormer Greetland, watching the face intently for a man in whose social balance-sheet manners stood as a notable asset, saw no more. “Is it quite true, Mr. Greetland?” The tone implied an amount of incredulity which compelled a spirited justification. “Absolutely, Countess. I was just saying that the discovery will be in the papers to-morrow.” His questioner smiled. “Does that make it true?” “It will at least bring the story to its proof. The Duchess won’t let it pass if it is a canard: she doesn’t need advertisement. But I happen to know it is quite true.” “I am sure Mr. Greetland would rather be dull than unauthentic, as the lesser of the two crimes.” The sarcasm was none the less stinging from being shot through the sweetest of smiles. “The Duke has been trying to hush it up,” Lady Rotherfield put in. Countess Alexia laughed. “All the details complete. And of course the owner of the sword has been found.” “I think not,” said Greetland. “Probably the Duke knows, as he was so anxious to hush up the affair,” the Countess continued, in her fascinating banter. “Poor Duke, he had better be careful, or he will be arrested as what you call an accessory after the fact, which would be a sensation, if you like. Always supposing, that is, that poor Reggie Martindale did not die of heart disease.” “That has been clearly proved, Countess,” Greetland said, glad of one firm foothold in stemming the increasing flow of increduilty. Alexia gave a shrug. “I never heard it, and I’m afraid I hear most things.” “The Duke hushed that up,” explained Sir Perrott. “How clever of him! With that talent for hushing tiresome tongues what a perfect nursemaid he might have been if he hadn’t been born a Duke and a man. How lucky he has failed this time, or we should not be having the sensation of the jewelled dagger, the false lover and the fair assassin. What hard lines! What a warning to inconstant young men and fussy Dukes. And we are to see it all in print to-morrow?” “Get the _Daily Comet_ for choice, Countess,” de Daun grinned. “I will, indeed. I am so sorry for the poor Duke.” “And the lady, the owner of the tell-tale weapon?” Greetland suggested. “Ah, yes. But it is so long ago. Our sympathy by this time is probably superfluous. Our tragedies to-day are almost as short-lived as our comedies.” “And almost as amusing.”