en discovered, that the
police were now sure to arrive. Then he knew at once. Nothing had been
discovered, the delusion held even for this woman, that glance was meant
for Rochester, not for him, and was caused by the affair of last night,
by other things, too, maybe, but that surely.

Uncomfortable, angry, nervous, wild to escape, and then yielding to
caution, he took his seat at the table where a place was laid--evidently
for him.

The woman had left an envelope on the table, he glanced at it.

THE HONBLE: VENETIA BIRDBROOK,
10A Carlton House Terrace,
London, S. W.

Victor read the inscription written in a bold female hand.

It told him where he was, he was in the breakfast-room of 10A Carlton
House Terrace, but it told him nothing more.

Was the Honble: Venetia Birdbrook his wife, or at least the wife of his
twin image? This thought blinded him for a moment to the fact that a
flunkey--they seemed as numerous as flies in May--was at his elbow with
a _menu_, whilst another flunkey, who seemed to have sprung from the
floor, was fiddling at the sideboard which contained cold edibles,
tongue, ham, chicken and so forth.

"Scrambled eggs," said he, looking at the card.

"Tea or coffee, my Lord?"

"Coffee."

He broke a breakfast roll and helped himself mechanically to some
butter, which was instantly presented to him by the sideboard fiddler,
and he had just taken a mechanical bite of buttered roll, when the door
opened and the Archiepiscopal gentleman who had pulled up his window
blind that morning entered. Mr. Church, for Jones had already gathered
that to be his name, carried a little yellow basket filled with letters
in his right hand, and in his left a great sheaf, The Times, Daily
Telegraph, Morning Post, Daily Mail, Daily Express, Chronicle, and Daily
News. These papers he placed on a side table evidently intended for that
purpose. The little letter basket he placed on the table at Jones' left
elbow.

Then he withdrew, but not without having spoken a couple of murmured
words of correction to the flunkey near the sideboard, who had omitted,
no doubt, some point in the mysterious ritual of which he was an
acolyte.

Jones glanced at the topmost letter.

THE EARL OF ROCHESTER,
10A, Carlton House Terrace,
London, S. W.

Ah! now he knew it. The true name of the juggler who had played