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“Ah, the dear bishop! YOU there, and I never saw you! You must come and have a nice long chat presently. By-by–!” She shook her fan at him over my shoulder and tripped off. Leta, passing me last, gave me a look of profound despair.

“Lady Carwitchet!” somebody exclaimed. “I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

“Thought she was dead or in penal servitude. Never should have expected to see her HERE,” said some one else behind me confidentially.

“What Carwitchet? Not the mother of the Carwitchet who–“

“Just so. The Carwitchet who—” Tom assented with a shrug. “We needn’t go farther, as she’s my guest. Just my luck. I met them at Buxton, thought them uncommonly good company–in fact, Carwitchet laid me under a great obligation about a horse I was nearly let in for buying–and gave them a general invitation here, as one does, you know. Never expected her to turn up with her luggage this afternoon just before dinner, to stay a week, or a fortnight if Carwitchet can join her.” A groan of sympathy ran round the table. “It can’t be helped. I’ve told you this just to show that I shouldn’t have asked you here to meet this sort of people of my own free will; but, as it is, please say no more about them.” The subject was not dropped by any means, and I took care that it should not be. At our end of the table one story after another went buzzing round–sotto voce, out of deference to Tom– but perfectly audible.

“Carwitchet? Ah, yes. Mixed up in that Rawlings divorce case, wasn’t he? A bad lot. Turned out of the Dragoon Guards for cheating at cards, or picking pockets, or something–remember the row at the Cerulean Club? Scandalous exposure–and that forged letter business–oh, that was the mother–prosecution hushed up somehow. Ought to be serving her fourteen years–and that business of poor Farrars, the banker–got hold of some of his secrets and blackmailed him till he blew his brains out–“

It was so exciting that I clean forgot the bishop, till a low gasp at my elbow startled me. He was lying back in his chair, his mighty shaven jowl a ghastly white, his fierce imperious eyebrows drooping limp over his fishlike eyes, his splendid figure shrunk and contracted. He was trying with a shaken hand to pour out wine. The decanter clattered against the glass and the wine spilled on the cloth.

“I’m afraid you find the room too warm. Shall we go into the library?”

He rose hastily and followed me like a lamb.

He recovered himself once we got into the hall, and affably rejected all my proffers of brandy and soda–medical advice– everything else my limited experience could suggest. He only demanded his carriage “directly” and that Miss Panton should be summoned forthwith.

I made the best use I could of the time left me.

“I’m uncommonly sorry you do not feel equal to staying a little longer, my lord. I counted on showing you my few trifles of precious stones, the salvage from the wreck of my possessions. Nothing in comparison with your own collection.”

The bishop clasped his hand over his heart. His breath came short and quick.

“A return of that dizziness,” he explained with a faint smile. “You are thinking of the Valdez sapphire, are you not? Some day,” he went on with forced composure, “I may have the pleasure of showing it to you. It is at my banker’s just now.”

Miss Panton’s steps were heard in the ball. “You are well known as a connoisseur, Mr. Acton,” he went on hurriedly. “Is your collection valuable? If so, keep it safe; don’t trust a ring off your hand, or the key of your jewel case out of your pocket till the house is clear again.” The words rushed from his lips in an impetuous whisper, he gave me a meaning glance, and departed with his daughter. I went back to the drawing-room, my head swimming with bewilderment.