But it wasn't Mr. Howarth. I could hear that the voice was different directly Mr. FitzHoward opened the door. What was taking place I didn't know. But it was quite two or three minutes before Mr.

FitzHoward returned. Then he threw open the door with a flourish.

'This gentleman wishes to speak to you--though he has not done me the honour of mentioning his name.'

Some one came into the room.

'I'm the Marquis of Twickenham,' he said.

He was quite young, and not bad-looking, and carried himself as, to my mind, only a gentleman can. He was very polite, though in quite a different way to Mr. Howarth. What he said I felt he meant; and I never had that feeling about the other man. I liked him, in spite of all my trouble, directly I set eyes on him and heard him speak. Though the idea of my mixing as an equal with the likes of him did strike me, even then, as against nature. You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear; and a sow's ear I am, so to speak, and shall be.

When he saw me he stared at me; not as if he wanted to, but as if he couldn't help it.

'I beg your pardon, but are you the lady Miss Desmond saw this morning?'

'This morning I did see Miss Desmond.'

'This,' said Mr. FitzHoward, stretching out his arm towards me as if he was a sign-post, 'is the Marchioness of Twickenham.'

I could have shaken him. The young gentleman looked him up and down, in that Who-on-earth-are-you kind-of-way which gentlemen do have; sometimes, I have heard say, without their knowing it.

'Indeed.--And may I ask, sir, who are you?'

'You may. I'm not ashamed of my name, and never shall be. I'm Augustus FitzHoward. For the last twenty years I have been connected with the profession, acting in a managerial capacity for some of the greatest stars who have ever illuminated the theatrical firmament. There, sir, is my card.'

The young gentleman held it between his finger and thumb as if he was afraid it would scorch him.

'Ah.' He turned to me. 'Is this gentleman a friend of yours?'

'He's a friend of my husband's.'

I said it pretty briskly--because I didn't mean to have Mr. FitzHoward sat upon, even though he would talk silly.

'May I speak in front of him?'

'Certainly. I have no secrets from Mr. FitzHoward.

The absurd man must put in his word. He pulled up his shirt collar and arranged his tie.

'Thank you, Marchioness, for this mark of your confidence; though, knowing you as I do, I have no hesitation in saying that it's no more than I expected. I may take this opportunity of informing the gentleman that I was on the most intimate terms with the late Marquis, both as regards business and friendship.'

'The late Marquis?'

'The late Marquis is what I said, and the late Marquis is what I meant. He was known to the public, with whom he had a world-wide reputation, as that Marvel of the Age--Montagu Babbacombe.'

CHAPTER XVII

THE MARCHIONESS IN SPITE OF HERSELF

I could see that the young gentleman didn't altogether know what to make of Mr. FitzHoward. I'm not sure myself that I wouldn't just as soon he'd left us alone together. Anyhow I did wish he wouldn't keep on everlastingly talking about theatres, just as though sensible people cared about such things.

The young gentleman said to me--

'Miss Desmond has been telling me such a very remarkable story, that, though I fear that my presence here at this moment may be the occasion to you of inconvenience, I felt myself compelled to endeavour to learn, from your own lips, with the least possible delay, exactly how the matter stands. Is it a fact that you are my brother's wife?'

'I know nothing about that, sir. My husband called himself James Merrett; and it was under that name I married him.'

'So I'm told. You have your husband's portrait, I hear. May I see it?'

I gave him one. 'Is this the portrait of your husband?'

'It is.'

'Then, as it is certainly the portrait of my brother, it seems that you must be my sister--or sister-in-law, whichever you please. And you've a son.'

I showed him Jimmy. He stood him on the table in front of him. Jimmy did not seem a bit afraid.

'Young man, you settle it. You're my brother's son; a superior edition--for which you're indebted probably to your mother--but his son. Do you know that I'm your uncle, and that you're a Marquis? I thought I was, but it seems I'm not. I was a usurper in your place.

You go up, I go down; it's the fortune of war.' He turned to me again.

'You understand that my presence here is quite informal. I'm simply here for my own peace of mind. If the lawyers knew, they'd probably object. So far as I'm concerned, if I'm personally satisfied that I'm holding what isn't mine, and occupying a position to which I have no right, that personal knowledge is sufficient. I shall need no legal forms to compel me to retire from a false situation. I suppose you have a copy of your marriage-certificate.'

'It's in my box upstairs.'

'And therefore can easily be verified. And I take it that your husband has left papers?'

'I don't know where they are. He never would keep letters. He tore them up as fast as he received them.'

'I can testify to that,' put in Mr. FitzHoward. 'And I remember what he said when I spoke to him about it. His answer struck me at the time as being a funny one, but now I think I can see what he was after. 'I never do keep papers,' he said, 'because you can't tell what tales some day they may tell of you.'

'Well, we won't go into that now. I think that, until the things are gone into, it would be better that you should come, with your children, to my house; or, rather, to what I expect will turn out to be your son's house.'

'Do you mean that you want me to--leave home?'

'On the contrary, I want you to come home; to your real home; to the home which I believe to be yours. It would be better, for your son's sake, as well as your own, that you should not stay here.'

'But--if James were to come--and find me gone!'

'James? You mean my brother? My dear lady, he is dead.'

'You talk about all sorts of things I don't understand, like those other two, but you say nothing about the only thing I care for. I can't believe that my James is dead--unless he was killed.'

'You would have no difficulty if you'd seen him as I saw him; and as for killing, that's absurd. I don't wish to say anything to pain you, but your words make it necessary that you should be told the truth.

When I saw him he was nothing but skin and bone; the mere shadow of what he had been; weak and helpless as a new-born child. The doctors agreed that he must have been dying for weeks, if not months, and that the only marvel was how he had lived so long.'

'Then--then there was witchcraft.'

'Witchcraft? What do you mean?'