Ivor Dacre smiled outright. The idea of there being any possible association between that oily Houndsditch Hebrew and the latest and brightest queen of the London season—the bride of but a month or two—struck him as too ludicrous. Mr. Dacre was possessed of that rare attribute, a sense of humour. A wicked idea entered his head.
"Are you a friend of her Grace's?"
"I am not a friend exactly, but there is a little business which I wish to do with her."
A little business! In the Marquis of Clonkilty's ballroom! With the Queen of Hearts!
Mr. Dacre's eyes wandered round the room. They passed from dancer to dancer. At last they rested upon one. As they did so he raised his hand to his moustache, possibly to conceal the smile which he could not restrain.
"You see that lady over there?"
"There are so many ladies. Upon my soul, I never see so many ladies."
"The lady in the dark green dress with the nose-glasses."
"The old girl with the moustache?"
"Precisely—the old girl with the moustache." Mr. Dacre's smile almost expanded into a grin. "That is the Duchess of Datchet."
Without a word of thanks Mr. Fungst strode off. He ploughed his way through the dancers without paying the slightest regard to the evolutions they were attempting to perform. Mr. Dacre watched him go with a degree of delight which seemed on the point of producing an inward convulsion. All at once Mr. Fungst pulled up right
