"You've been quizzing my friend Kent, I perceive, in your Burlington Gate. The Widgett mental furniture was perhaps worn and shabby, but there it was before you, undisguised, fading visibly in an almost pitiless sunlight. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. It is a plain case of alcoholic stupor. I will go to-night. She saw me, and, Lady Ferringhall, I shall never forget her look as long as I live. “You are a dear,” she exclaimed affectionately. No one seeing you together could doubt that she is your granddaughter. Some of my schemes are already in hand. Much too formal for a cosy chat between old friends.
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