“Ach, zey most not know,” he muttered.  “I shall give moch money—­hondreds of pound—­not to let zem find out.  Oh, what for fool have I been!”

So deeply was he plunged in these sorrowful meditations, and so constantly were they concerned with the two ladies whose feelings he wished to spare, that when a hum of voices reached his ear, one of them strangely —­even ominously—­familiar, he only thought at first that his imagination had grown morbidly vivid.  To dispel the unpleasant fancies suggested by this imagined voice, he raised his head, and then the next instant bounded from his chair.

“Mein Gott!” he muttered, “it is she.”

Too thunderstruck to move, he saw his prison door open, and there, behold! stood the Countess of Grillyer, a terrible look upon her high-born features, a Darius at either shoulder.  In silence they surveyed one another, and it was Mr. Maddison who spoke first.

“Guess this is a friend of yours,” he observed.

One thought and one only filled the prisoner’s mind —­she must leave him, and immediately.

“No, no; I do not know her!” he cried.

“You do not know me?” repeated the Countess in a voice rich in promise.

“Certainly I do not.”

“She knows you all right,” said the millionaire.

“Says she does,” put in Ri in a lower voice; “but I wouldn’t lay much money on her word either.”

“Rudolph!  You pretend you do not know me?” cried the Countess between wrath and bewilderment.

“I never did ever see sochlike a voman before,” reiterated the Baron.

“What do you say to that, ma’am?” inquired Mr. Maddison.

“I say—­I blush to say—­that this wretched young man is my son-in-law,” declared the Countess.

As she had come to the house inquiring merely for Lord Tulliwuddle, and been conducted straight to the prisoner’s cell, the stupefying effect of this announcement may readily be conceived.

“What!” ejaculated the Dariuses.

“It is not true!  She is mad!  Take her avay, please!” shouted the Baron, now desperate in his resolution to say or do anything, so long as he got rid of his formidable relative.

The Countess staggered back.

“Is he demented?” she inquired.

“Say, ma’am,” put in Ri, “are you the mother of
Miss Constance Herringay?”

“Of——?  I am Lady Grillyer!”

“See here, my good lady, that’s going a little too far,” said the millionaire not unkindly.  “This friend of yours here first calls himself Lord Tulliwuddle, and then the Baron von something or other.  Well, now, that’s two of the aristocracy in this under-sized apartment already.  There’s hardly room for a third—­see?  Can’t you be plain Mrs. Smith for a change?”

The Countess tottered.

“Fellow!” she said in a faint voice, “I—­I do not understand you.”

“Thought that would fetch her down,” commented
Ri.