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Will you please read it?" Duncombe tore open the envelope. "CHESTOW, Wednesday Evening. "MY DEAR DUNCOMBE, My friend De St. Ethol tells me that he is obliged, at great personal inconvenience, to execute a commission for a friend which involves a somewhat unceremonious call upon you to-night. He desires me, therefore, to send you these few lines. The Marquis de St.
"You know Paris well," Duncombe said. "Have you ever heard of these people?" Spencer smiled. "My dear fellow!" he exclaimed. "De St. Ethol is one of the first nobles in France. I have seen him at the races many times." "Not the sort of people to lend themselves to anything shady?" "The last in the world," Spencer answered.
Ethol and his wife are amongst my oldest friends. It gives me great pleasure to vouch for them both in every way. "Yours sincerely, "The letter, I am afraid," the Marquis said, smiling, "does little to satisfy your curiosity. Permit me to explain my errand in a few words." "Certainly," Duncombe interrupted. "But won't you take something? I am glad to see that Spencer is looking after your wife."
He bowed to the lady, and led them towards the library. Spencer, who had heard them coming, had hastily concealed his revolver, and was lounging in an easy-chair reading the evening paper. "I am afraid that my servants are all in bed," Duncombe said, "and I can offer you only a bachelor's hospitality. This is my friend, Mr. Spencer the Marquis and Marquise de St. Ethol.
"Of course all her inquiries over here would have led to nothing, but they knew her at the English Embassy, so we walked her off from the Café Montmartre one night and took her to a friend of mine, the Marquise de St. Ethol. We told her a little of the truth, and a little, I'm afraid, which was an exaggeration. Anyhow, we kept her quiet, and we got her to go to England for us with Toquet.
"If you will produce the young lady," he said, "I think that you will find her prepared to come with us without asking any questions." Duncombe threw open the door which led into the inner room. The girl stepped forward as far as the threshold and looked out upon them. "The Marquis and the Marquise de St. Ethol," Duncombe said to her.
"We really are heartily ashamed of ourselves for disturbing you at such an hour, Sir George," the man said, "but you will pardon us when you understand the position. I am the Marquis de St. Ethol, and this is my wife. I have a letter to you from my friend the Duke of Chestow, with whom we have been staying." Duncombe concealed his astonishment as well as he was able.
"I don't think that it will be any good to you. I think that it is more likely to lead you into trouble. Miss Poynton is with the Marquis and Marquise de St. Ethol. They are of the first nobility in France. Their position as people of honor and circumstance appears undoubted. But nevertheless, if you are allowed to see her I shall be surprised." The hall-porter approached them, hat in hand.
Ethol, one of the haute noblesse, to welcome whom was a surpassing honor. And then Monsieur Guy Poynton, the young English gentleman, whose single appearance here a few weeks back had started all the undercurrents of political intrigue, and who for the justification of French journalism should at that moment have been slowly dying at the Morgue.
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