"That was the Duchess of Datchet," observed Mr. Fungst's new acquaintance, who had been observing him with unconcealed amusement
Mr. Fungst awoke as though from a stupor. Again there came that adjuration, "Mein Gott!—she's gone!"
She was. And before Mr. Fungst caught sight of her again the Duchess of Datchet's carriage had been called, and her Grace was in it, driving from the ball.
The Duchess had the carriage to herself. A gentleman had escorted her to the door. As he closed it he murmured just one word—
"Remember!"
She, leaning forward, had replied, "Do you think I can forget?"
As the vehicle passed swiftly through the night, if one might judge from the expression on her countenance, it did not seem as though she could. Once she put up her small gloved hands and veiled her face—veiled it though there was no one there to see. She took a little card from the bosom of her dress. It was the programme of the ball. It was a white card. The back was blank, or, rather, it would have been if it had not been for certain pencil marks. The pencil marks were figures. On the back of the programme was a little sum in compound addition. It was cast up. The total was stated. The sight of that total seemed to cause her Grace discomfort. "If I could only lay my hand upon the money!"
The carriage reached home. As the Duchess entered the hall a servant advanced to meet her. He addressed the lady in a confidential whisper.
