“I certainly shouldn’t marry a girl I didn’t know a good deal about,” said the Baroness with conviction.

Lord Tulliwuddle seemed impressed with this opinion.

“That’s just what I have begun to think,” said he, and gazed down at his pumps with a meditative air.

The Baroness thought the moment had come when she could effect a pretty little surprise.

“Which of them is called Eva?” she asked archly.

To her intense disappointment he merely stared.

“Don’t you really know any girl called Eva?”

He shook his head.

“Can’t think of any one.”

Suspicion, fear, bewilderment, made her reckless.

“Have you been in Scotland—­at your castle, as I heard you were going?”

A mighty change came over the young man.  He backed away from her, stammering hurriedly

“No—­yes—­I—­er—­why do you ask me that?”

“Is there any other Lord Tulliwuddle?” she demanded breathlessly.

He gave her one wild look, and then without so much as a farewell had turned and elbowed his way out of the room.

“It’s all up!” he said to himself.  “There’s no use trying to play that game any longer—­Essington has muddled it somehow.  Well, I’m free to do what I like now!”

In this state of mind he found himself in the street, hailed the first hansom, and drove headlong from the dangerous regions of Belgravia.

. . . . . .

Till the middle of the next day the Baroness still managed to keep her own counsel, though she was now so alarmed that she was twenty times on the point of telling everything to her mother.  But the arrival of a note from Sir Justin ended her irresolution.  It ran thus: 

“My dear Alicia,—­I have just learned for certain that Lord T. is at his place in Scotland.  Singularly enough, he is described as apparently of foreign extraction, and I hear that he is accompanied by a friend of the name of Count Bunker.  I am just setting out for the North myself, and trust that I may be able to elucidate the mystery.  Yours very truly,
                    “Justin Wallingford.”

“Foreign extraction!  Count Bunker!” gasped the Baroness; and without stopping to debate the matter again, she rushed into her mother’s arms, and there sobbed out the strange story of her second letter and the two Lord Tulliwuddles.

It were difficult to say whether anger at her daughter’s deceit, indignation with the treacherous Baron, or a stern pleasure in finding her worst prognostications in a fair way to being proved, was the uppermost emotion in Lady Grillyer’s mind when she had listened to this relation.  Certainly poor Alicia could not but think that sympathy for her troubles formed no ingredient in the mixture.

“To think of your concealing this from me for so long!” she cried:  “and Sir Justin abetting you!  I shall tell him very plainly what I think of him!  But if my daughter sets an example in treachery, what can one expect of one’s friends?”