She was evidently not going to get anything out of him that would pay for the trouble of fetching the _corpus delicti_, and so her Grace wrapped it up again in no very amiable mood. Her visitor’s reticence was the more exasperating in that her instinct told her he could, if he chose, give a shrewd guess at the owner. Except as a matter of feminine curiosity she did not care much to know what she was convinced Playford might have told her; but she did not consider it consistent with her dignity to be thus made use of, and she felt very much inclined to be rude to her departing guest. And it is given to Duchesses to be very rude when they like. Then a certain idea of the inexpediency of venting her spleen occurred to her just in time; perhaps she realized that Aubrey Playford was a dangerous man for even a Duchess to snub, and she let him go in peace. But the Duke, who dared not go out, remained to her; and he went to bed that night feeling that the world may be made very unpleasant, even for a Duke. CHAPTER V THE MAN WHO GUESSED Countess Alexia of Rohnburg had had a few of her intimate friends to luncheon at the house in Green Street, and the last of them, Mary Riverdale, was still sitting with her in cosy chat when a note was brought in. That her hostess did not like the look of the handwriting on the envelope, Miss Riverdale was sure. But she forbore the comment to which her intimacy might have entitled her, and contented herself with running through a picture book while Alexia read the note. “Is--any one waiting?” the Countess had asked. “No, madame,” answered the man, unsatisfyingly laconic, as became his position. Alexia read the note, restored it to its envelope and put it, address downwards, on the table. Her visitor threw aside the _Graphic_, and for a few moments there was a constrained silence, a pause of mental self-consciousness, almost awkward, considering how intimate the two were. But both of them, young though they might be, were too experienced players in that everyday game of social diplomacy to let an embarrassment become manifest. Yet there will assert itself, in spite of tact and artifice, a certain instinct which tells us our companions are reading our thoughts and gauging our dilemmas. “I wonder what the next development of the Vaux House mystery will be,” Miss Riverdale observed, quoting the headline of the _Daily Comet_. The affair had, as was natural, been the subject of animated discussion at luncheon, and it seemed scarcely worth while to reopen it. The Countess gave a shrug. “We must wait and see,” she answered mechanically. “The poor Duchess! One almost feels one ought to leave cards of enquiry.” “The poor Duke,” laughed her friend. “They will get more fun out of him than ever. Not but what this is a serious matter.” “You really think so?” The talk was being sustained by an effort on both sides, and Alexia’s question sounded suspiciously like covering a yawn.