“What is it, Francis?” asked Madame Lisse without turning her head.

Dr. Hart closed the door and in a moment his figure stood behind hers in the long glass.

“It was unwise to come in,” she said, speaking very quietly. “That woman has the room next to yours and Mrs. Compline is on the other side of this one. Why have you not changed? You will be late.”

“I must speak to you. I cannot remain in this house, Elise. I must find some excuse to leave immediately.”

She turned and looked fixedly at him.

“What is it now, Francis? Surely you cannot be disturbed à cause de Nicholas Compline. I assure you…”

“It is not solely on his account. Although…”

“What, then?”

“His mother’s!”

“His mother’s!” she repeated blankly. “That unfortunate woman? Have you ever seen a more disastrous face? What do you mean? I wondered if perhaps Mr. Royal had thought that by inviting her he might do you a service.”

“A service,” Dr. Hart repeated. “A service! Gott im Himmel!”

“Could you not do something?”

“What you have seen,” said Dr. Hart, “I did.”

“You! Francis, she was not…?”

“It was in my early days. In Vienna. It was the Schmitt-Lipmann treatment — paraffin wax. We have long ago abandoned it, but at that time it was widely practised. In this case — as you see.”

“But her name. Surely you remembered her name?”

“She did not give her own name. Very often they do not. She called herself Mrs. Nicholas after her accursed son, I suppose. Afterwards of course she made a great scene. I attempted adjustments, but in those days I was less experienced, the practice of plastic surgery was in its infancy. I could do nothing. When I came to England my greatest dread was that I might one day encounter this Mrs. Nicholas.”

Dr. Hart uttered a sort of laugh. “I believe my first suspicions of that young man arose from the associations connected with his name.”

“Obviously, she did not recognize you.”

“How do you know?”

“Her manner was perfectly calm. How long ago was this affair?”

“About twenty-five years.”

“And you were young Doktor Franz Hartz of Vienna? Did you not wear a beard and moustaches then? Yes. And you were slim in those days. Of course she did not recognize you.”

“Franz Hartz and Francis Hart, it is not such a difference. They all know I am a naturalized Austrian and a plastic surgeon. I cannot face it. I shall speak, now, to Royal. I shall say I must return urgently to a case—”

“—And by this behaviour invite her suspicion. Nonsense, my friend. You will remain and make yourself charming to Mrs. Compline and, if she now suspects, she will say to herself: ‘I was mistaken. He could never have faced me.’ Come now,” said Madame Lisse, drawing his face down to hers, “you will keep your head, Francis, and perhaps to-morrow, who knows, you will have played your part so admirably, that we shall change places.”

“What do you mean?”

Madame Lisse laughed softly. “I may be jealous of Mrs. Compline,” she said. “No, no, you are disarranging my hair. Go and change and forget your anxiety.”

Dr. Hart moved to the door and paused. “Elise,” he said, “suppose this was planned.”

“What do you mean?”

“Suppose Jonathan Royal knew. Suppose he deliberately brought about this encounter.”

“What next! Why in the world should he do such a thing?”

“There is something mischievous about him.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “Go and change.”

“Hersey, I want to speak to you.”

From inside the voluminous folds of the dress she was hauling over her head Hersey said: “Sandra, darling, do come in. I’m longing for a gossip with you. Wait a jiffy. Sit down.” She tugged at the dress and her head, firmly tied up in a strong net, came out at the top. For a moment she stood and stared at her friend. That face, so painfully suggestive of an image in some distorting mirror, was the colour of parchment. The lips held their enforced travesty of a smile but they trembled and the large eyes were blurred by tears.

“Sandra, my dear, what is it?” cried Hersey.

“I can’t stay here. I want you to help me. I’ve got to get away from this house.”

“Sandra! But why?” Hersey knelt by Mrs. Compline. “You’re not thinking of the gossip about Nick and the Pirate, blast her eyes?”

“What gossip? I don’t know what you mean. What about Nicholas?”

“It doesn’t matter. Nothing. Tell me what’s happened.” Hersey took Mrs. Compline’s hands between her own and, feeling them writhe together in her grasp, was visited by an idea that the distress which Mrs. Compline’s face was incapable of expressing had flowed into these struggling hands. “What happened?” Hersey repeated.

“Hersey, that man, Jonathan’s new friend, I can’t meet him again.”

“Aubrey Mandrake?”

“No, no. The other.”

“Dr. Hart?”

“I can’t meet him.”

“But why?”

“Don’t look at me. I know it’s foolish of me, Hersey, but I can’t tell you if you look at me. Please go on dressing and let me tell you.”

Hersey returned to the dressing-table and presently Mrs. Compline began to speak. The thin exhausted voice, now well-controlled, lent no colour to the story of despoiled beauty. It trailed dispassionately through her husband’s infidelities, her own despair, her journey to Vienna, and her return. And Hersey, while she listened, absently made up her own face, took off her net, and arranged her hair. When it was over she turned towards Mrs. Compline but came no nearer to her.

“But can you be sure?” she said.

“It was his voice. When I heard of him first, practising in Great Chipping, I wondered. I said so to Deacon, my maid. She was with me that time in Vienna.”

“It was over twenty years ago, Sandra. And his name—”

“He must have changed it when he became naturalized.”

“Does he look at all as he did then?”

“No. He has changed very much.”

“Then—”

“I am not positive, but I am almost positive. I can’t face it, Hersey, can I?”

“I think you can,” said Hersey, “and I think you will.”

Jonathan stood in front of a blazing fire in the drawing-room. Brocaded curtains hung motionless before the windows, the room glowed with reflected light and, but for the cheerful hiss and crackle of burning logs, was silent. The night outside was silent, too, but every now and then Jonathan heard a momentary sighing as if the very person of the north wind explored the outer walls of Highfold. Presently one of the shutters knocked softly at its frame and then the brocaded curtains stirred a little, and Jonathan looked up expectantly. A door at the far end of the room opened and Hersey Amblington came in.

“Hersey, how magnificent! You have dressed to please me, I believe. I have a passion for dull green and furs. Charming of you, my dear.”

“You won’t think me so charming when you hear what I’ve got to say,” Hersey rejoined. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Jo.”

“What an alarming phrase that is,” said Jonathan. “Will you have a drink?”

“No, thank you. Sandra Compline has been threatening to go home.”

“Indeed? That’s vexing. I hope you dissuaded her?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Splendid. I’m so grateful. It would have quite spoiled my party.”

“I told her not to give you the satisfaction of knowing you had scored.”

“Now that really is unfair,” cried Jonathan.

“No, it’s not. Look here, did you know about Sandra and your whey-faced boy-friend?”

“Mandrake?”

“Now, Jo, none of that nonsense. Sandra confides in her maid, and she tells me the maid is bosom friends with your Mrs. Pouting. You’ve listened to servants’ gossip, Jo. You’ve heard that Sandra thought this Hart man might be the Dr. Hartz who made that appalling mess of her face.”

“I only wondered. It would be an intriguing coincidence.”

“I’m ashamed of you, and I’m furious with you on my own account. Forcing me to be civil to that blasted German.”