Mr. Lemby was in no hurry to explain himself. He stared wolfishly at the woman who had put an end to his greedy hopes, and did not speak, for quite two minutes. He noted that Lady Wyke was a smallish woman, by no means in her first youth, with a slender figure and a very perfect pink-and-white complexion, which was probably due to art. Her features were cleanly cut, her teeth were white and regular, and she had a pair of large dark eyes, which suggested those of an Andalusian beauty. Nothing could have been more fashionable or accurate than mourning. Lemby, being a big man, liked little women, and could not conceal from himself that Lady Wyke was particularly attractive. Yet he judged from the hardness of her bright eyes and the unemotional tones of her shrill voice that she was a cat. So he called her in his own mind, and decided that only personal violence could reduce her to reason, and to get the money by personal violence was quite, what the buccaneer would do. He loathed Lady Wyke as a marplot, yet he could not deny her attractions. At one the same time he would have liked to kiss her and to strangle her. "Well, Mr. Lemby," said Lady Wyke, sharply, for she objected to his insolent scrutiny, "and why are you here?" "To stand up for Claudia's rights," growled Lemby, in a surly manner. "Claudia? And who is Claudia?" She stared impertinently through the lorgnette. "My daughter, who would have married Sir Hector had you not been alive." Lady Wyke dropped her glasses and burst into a shrill, unpleasant laugh. "Oh, I remember"--she clapped her elegantly-gloved hands--"I saw the announcement of the proposed marriage in a society paper which I picked up in New York, and it was that which brought me over, to tell Hector that he must not commit bigamy. Well, I'm sorry for your daughter, Mr. Lemby, but I am Sir Hector Wyke's wife." "Pardon me," put in Sandal, "you are his widow." "Pooh!" said Lady Wyke, contemptuously. "How precise you are." "It is just as well to call things by their proper names," said Lemby, grimly. "Oh, I'm a thing am I! Don't you think he is very ungallant, Mr. Lemby?" "I don't think anything about it," snarled the pirate, crossly. Lady Wyke put up her lorgnette again. "No? You look as though you acted rather than thought. I wonder if your daughter is like you." "No, she dashed well ain't." "I thought not. My late husband was a fool, but he was always a gentleman, and would not have cared to marry a girl who used oaths and bad grammar. "Claudia speaks as well as you do, and is much handsomer and younger," retorted Lemby, spitefully. "Really! You make me long to see this paragon. What is your Mr. Lemby, as I should like to call," and Lady Wyke took out a set of ivory tablets. "I don't want you to call, nor does Claudia," growled Lemby, who was exasperated the way in which the woman spoke. "If you don't want to see me, why are you here, then?"