When the play was over the Wynnes prudently waited, and were almost the last to leave. But, even so, when they passed through the lobbies, a good many people were still to be seen. They were a rather remarkable couple, and although Madeline had drawn her lace scarf well over her head, it was of no avail. On the stairs she came face to face with Lord Tony.

“Hullo!” he exclaimed, as he accosted her. “I did not know you were coming here to-night. Rachel told me she lunched with you to-day, and you were alone in your glory. Whom did you come with?” And he looked as if he was expecting to see some of the party.

“I came in very good company,” she replied. “But, pray, who made you my father confessor?”

“I only wish I was! Are you going on to supper at the Candy-tufts? If so, we shall meet again.”

“No, I’m going home this moment.”

“How virtuous! Well, you’ll be in the Row to-morrow—riding—at the usual hour?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I’ll look out for you about ten. Good night.” And he hurried off.

“Who is that?” inquired Laurence.

“Oh, a great friend of papa’s—Lord Anthony Foster.”

“Indeed! I shouldn’t have thought they had many tastes in common.”

“Well, at any rate they have one,” she answered, with a flippant laugh.

“Yes, dense as I am, I think I can guess it!”

Mr. Wynne was also recognized by several of his own friends. Why is it that there is always some one to see you when you wish to escape notice, and, when you particularly desire to court observation, there is never any one forthcoming?

No; and yet if you lose a front tooth, and, with a gaping chasm in your neat front row, are en route to the dentist, you are bound to encounter half your acquaintances.

Mr. FitzHerbert and Mr. Treherne were standing on the steps as their friend passed, and wished him a cheerful good night.

He did not accompany Madeline; she would not permit it. She must get home at once, before her father returned, she whispered; “and supposing she were seen driving up, escorted by a gentleman, a stranger!”

“All right, all right, Maddie,” wringing her hand. “But, mind you, it is the last time. Remember, to-morrow! Send me a wire, and I shall come and fetch you.”

Then, with a gesture of farewell, he stepped back, and she was quickly whirled away.

Mr. FitzHerbert and Mr. Treherne were still endeavouring to light up, and had not yet started to walk; the night was fine and frosty, and they had not far to go.

“I’m coming your way. Hold on a minute till I get out my cigar-case,” said their late host. And soon the trio were facing homewards, discussing the piece, the actresses, the audience; but not a word dropped from either gentleman’s lips with regard to Wynne’s mysterious lady friend, though, like the celebrated parrot, they thought the more. Wynne was a reserved sort of chap. For nearly a year he had dropped out of their ken. Jessop alone was his confidential friend. None ever dreamt of poking their noses into his affairs, as a caustic reply, or a painful snub was sure to be the reward of the experiment. He was of good family—that they knew; and latterly some of his influential relations had been looking him up. (Nothing succeeds like success, and the brilliant author of society skits was now eagerly claimed by his connections.)

Nevertheless, they were exceedingly anxious to know more respecting Miss West, the gay vivacious beauty, whose fame had spread far and wide, whose riches and whose disheartening indifference to the advances of the most eligible partis were alike proverbial.

What on earth had she to do with a hard-working barrister like Wynne, who rarely mixed in society? They asked each other this question after they had left Wynne and his client tête-à-tête. “Business?”

It was confoundedly odd that she should pitch on such an hour, and on such an uncommonly handsome fellow as Wynne for her legal adviser; and the funniest part of it all was, that Wynne was not particularly pleased to see her, and treated her as coolly as if she had been his grand-aunt by marriage! Talking of matters far different from their inmost thoughts brought the trio to Mr. Treherne’s chambers.

“Come up, you fellows, and have some devilled bones,” he said hospitably; “the night is young!”

Mr. FitzHerbert never turned a deaf ear to such an appeal, but Wynne on this occasion, rather to his friend’s surprise, said, “All right, I’ll come up for a minute,” and sprang up the stairs two steps at a time.

“I’m not going to stay,” he said, taking off his hat and standing with his back to the fire, still in his top coat; “but I’ve just wished to have a word with you two fellows. I want to ask you, as a special favour to me, to say nothing to any one of having met Miss West in my chambers.”

The two guests muttered, “Oh, of course not; certainly not;” but without any great alacrity. This demand was decidedly a blow, for they were only human, and were looking forward to describing the scene with pleasurable anticipation.

“When I ask you to do me this favour,” he resumed, as coolly as if he were speaking in court, “I think it only fair to take you into my confidence, and to tell you our secret. Miss West and I were married nearly two years ago. She is my wife.”

And putting on his hat, he nodded good night with the utmost sangfroid, and ere they could get out one single syllable, much less question, he was already at the bottom of the last flight of stairs.