"Cover me when I leave," he said. He had finished his soup when the waiter brought him a note. He broke open the envelope and read the contents with an expression of annoyance. "I shall be back in a few minutes," he said, rising; "reserve this table." The waiter bowed. CHAPTER XV THE DANCING GIRL T. B. reached the second floor. The corridor was deserted; he walked quickly to No. 11. The door yielded to his push. He closed it behind him and noiselessly locked it. He took a tiny electric lamp from his pocket and threw the light cautiously round. He found the table and chair placed ready for him, and blessed Vellair silently. The ventilator was a small one; he had located it easily enough when he had entered the room by the gleam of light that came through it. Very carefully he mounted the table, stepped lightly into the chair, and looked down into the next chamber. It was an ordinary kind of private dining-room. The only light came from two shaded electric lamps on the table in the centre. Sir George, with a frown, was regarding his beautiful _vis-à-vis_. That she was lovely beyond ordinary loveliness T. B. knew from repute. He had expected the high colourings, the blacks and scarlets of the Andalusian; but this girl had the creamy complexion of the well-bred Spaniard, with eyes that might have been hazel or violet in the uncertain light, but which were decidedly not black. Her lips, now tightly compressed, were neither too full nor too thin; her nose straight; her hair, brushed back from her forehead in an unfamiliar style, was that exact tint between bronze and brown that your connoisseur so greatly values. A plain _filet_ of dull gold about her head and the broad collar of pearls around her neck were the only jewels she displayed. Her dress was black, unrelieved by any touch of colour. She was talking rapidly in French, a language with which T. B. was very well conversant. "----but, Sir George," she pleaded, "it would be horrible, wicked, cruel not to see him again!" "It would be worse if you saw him," said the other drily. "You know, my dear Miss Dominguez, you would both be miserable in a month. The title would be no compensation for you; Carleby would bore you; Carleby House would drive you mad; Carleby's relatives would incite you to murder." "You are one!" she blazed. "Exactly; and do I not exasperate you? Think of me magnified by a hundred. Come, come, there are better men than Carleby in the world, and you are young, you are little more than a child." "But I love him," she sobbed. "I suppose you do." T. B., from his hiding-place, bestowed an admiring grin upon the patronage in the baronet's tone. "When did you meet him first?" "Three weeks ago." She spoke with a catch in her voice that affected T. B. strangely. "That girl is acting," he thought. "But why----?" "Three weeks?" mused the banker. "Um--when did you discover he was a relative of mine?"