to him.  His complexion was no more than becomingly tanned; his slight moustache, trimmed very close to the upper lip, was of the same ruddy brown shade as his sleekly brushed hair.  The woman, who had commenced now to move slowly towards him, save that her cheeks, at that moment, at any rate, were almost unnaturally pale, was of the same colouring.  Her red-gold hair gleamed beneath her black hat.  She was tall, a Grecian type of figure, large without being coarse, majestic though still young.  She carried a little dog under one arm and a plain black silk bag, on which was a coronet in platinum and diamonds, in the other hand.  The major-domo who presided over the room, watching her approach, bowed with more than his usual urbanity.  Her eyes, however, were still fixed upon the person who had engaged so large a share of her attention.  She came towards him, her lips a little parted.

“Leopold!” she faltered.  “The Holy Saints, why did you not let me know!”

Dominey bowed very slightly.  His words seemed to have a cut and dried flavour.

“I am so sorry,” he replied, “but I fear that you make a mistake.  My name is not Leopold.”

She stood quite still, looking at him with the air of not having heard a word of his polite disclaimer.

“In London, of all places,” she murmured.  “Tell me, what does it mean?”

“I can only repeat, madam,” he said, “that to my very great regret I have not the honour of your acquaintance.”

She was puzzled, but absolutely unconvinced.

“You mean to deny that you are Leopold Von Ragastein?” she asked incredulously.  “You do not know me?”

“Madam,” he answered, “it is not my great pleasure.  My name is Dominey—­Everard Dominey.”

She seemed for a moment to be struggling with some embarrassment which approached emotion.  Then she laid her fingers upon his sleeve and drew him to a more retired corner of the little apartment.

“Leopold,” she whispered, “nothing can make it wrong or indiscreet for you to visit me.  My address is 17, Belgrave Square.  I desire to see you to-night at seven o’clock.”

“But, my dear lady,” Dominey began—­

Her eyes suddenly glowed with a new light.

“I will not be trifled with,” she insisted.  “If you wish to succeed in whatever scheme you have on hand, you must not make an enemy of me.  I shall expect you at seven o’clock.”

She passed away from him into the restaurant.  Mr. Mangan, now freed from his friends, rejoined his host, and the two men took their places at the side table to which they were ushered with many signs of attention.

“Wasn’t that the Princess Eiderstrom with whom you were talking?” the solicitor asked curiously.

“A lady addressed me by mistake,” Dominey explained.  “She mistook me, curiously enough, for a man who used to be called my double at Oxford.  Sigismund Devinter he was then, although I think he came into a title later on.”