further than 'Elise,' for, if she knew any more, she 'd forgotten it; but thanks to your friend the shuvver, I could go one better. When I told the duchess you called yourself d'Angely, or something like that, she said 'I was sure of it!' Now, I expect you begin to smell a rat—what?"
"I daresay you've been carrying one about in your pocket ever since," I snapped, "though I can't think what it has to do with me. I 'm not interested in dead rats."
"This is your own rat," said Bertie, grinning. "What 'll you give to know what the duchess told me about you?"
"Nothing," I said.
"Well, then, I 'll be generous and let you have it for nothing. She told me she thought she recognized you, but until she heard the name, she supposed she must be mistaken; that it was only a remarkable resemblance between my stepmother's maid and a girl who 'd run away under very peculiar circumstances from the house of a friend of hers. What do you think of that?"
"That the duchess is a cat," I replied, promptly.
"Most women are."
"In your set, perhaps."
"She said there was a man mixed up with the story, a rich middle-aged chap of the name of Charretier, with a big house in Paris and a new château he 'd built, near Fontainebleau. She gave me a card to him."
"He 's sure not to be at home," I remarked.
Bertie's face fell; but he brightened again. "Anyhow you admit you know him."
