this was the first time they had met. This rare creature had touched cords which had long been forgotten, even had they been known to exist, in the slightly dehumanized thing he called himself.
Shaken as he had never been in his life, his mind was held by the thought of her long after she had gone. Mystified, disconcerted, rather forlorn, a harrowing idea was beginning to torment him. At last he could bear it no longer. Rising from his chair with a stifled impatience, he made his way out of the room leaning heavily upon his stick. He went along the corridor as far as the head of the central staircase. Here he stood a long while in contemplation of a large, rather florid picture by Lawrence. The subject was a young woman of distinguished beauty, a portrait of his famous grandmother, the wife of Bridport's second duke. Apart from her appearance, which had been greatly celebrated, she had had a reputation for wit and charm; her memoirs of the 'Thirties had long taken rank as a classic; and no annals of the time were complete without the mention of her name.
The prey of some very unhappy thoughts, the Duke stood long immersed in the picture before him. The resemblance he sought to trace had grown so plain that it provoked a shiver. The line of the cheek, the shape of the eyes, the curve of the chin, the poise of the head on the long and slender throat were identical with the living replica he had just seen.
At last he returned to his room and rang the bell. To the servant who answered it, he said: "Ask Mrs. Sanderson to come to me."
The summons was promptly obeyed. But as Har-
