“Ain’t she a delight, though?” says the Mooner. “Gad, look at ’em bouncing when she struts!”

“That’s Donna Lola Montez, is it?” says I. “When does she perform, d’ye know?”

“Opens next week,” says he. “There’ll be a crowd and a half, shouldn’t wonder. Oh, Lovely Lola!”

Well, I’d never heard of Lola Montez, but I saw there was something here that needed going into. I made a few discreet inquiries, and it seemed that half the town was talking about her already, for Lumley was making a great to-do about his beautiful new attraction. The critics were slavering in advance about “the belle Andalusian”, and predicting a tremendous success, but nobody had any notion that she wasn’t a genuine Spanish artiste at all. But I was in no doubt about her; I’d been close enough to Rosanna James to be sure.

At first I was just amused, but then it occurred to me that here was a heaven-sent opportunity to have my own back on her. If she was exposed, denounced for what she really was, that would put paid to her making a hit. It would also teach her not to throw piss-pots at me. But how to do it best? I pondered, and in five minutes I had it pat.

I remembered, from the conversations we had had during our passionate week, her mention of Lord Ranelagh, who was one of the leading boys about town just then. She was forever chattering about her admirers, and he was one she had turned down; snubbed him dead, in fact. I knew him only to see, for he was a very top-flight Corinthian, and didn’t take much heed even of heroes if they weren’t out of the top drawer (and I wasn’t). But all I’d heard suggested that he was a first-class swine, and just the man for me.

I hunted him out at his club, slid inside when the porter wasn’t looking, and found him in the smoke-room. He was lying on a couch, puffing a cigar with his hat over his brows; I spoke right out.

“Lord Ranelagh,” says I. “How are you? I’m Flashman.”

He cocked an eye lazily under the brim of his hat, damned haughty.

“I’m certain I haven’t had the honour,” says he. “Good-day to you.”

“No, no, you remember me,” says I. “Harry Flashman, you know.”

He pushed his hat right back, and looked at me as if I was a toad.

“Oh,” says he at length, with a sneer, “The Afghan warrior. Well, what is it?”

“I took the liberty of calling on your lordship,” says I, “because I chanced to come across a mutual acquaintance.”

“I cannot conceive that we have any,” drawls he, “unless you happen to be related to one of my grooms.”