The ghost eyed her with disfavor. She was all he detested in a woman—arrogant, frigid and unkind. Still invisible, he drifted up to the couple and seizing the Duchess’s waving hand, thrust it neatly down the front of the bishop’s knee breeches. The Duchess and the bishop came to an abrupt halt, the Duchess, her face a frozen mask of horror—too horrified to remove her hand. The bishop looked down in surprise and then a slow smile crossed his cherubic features. “Deary me!” he said. “One is never too old after all.”

The ghost fled, chuckling, feeling he had performed enough mischief for one evening. As he reached the boundaries of the demesne he suddenly sobered. Was Alice in danger? His mind worked furiously. He had supplied her with an authentic background. No one would be able to touch her.

But the thought of Miss Snapper languishing in the madhouse chilled him. He must do something about that. But not now. He paced up and down until he had convinced himself that Alice was safe from any mischief.

He decided it was once more time to closet himself with his memoirs. If he did not overhear conversations, then he would not be disturbed. Alice had plenty of money and was supplied with every elegance and comfort. He had only himself to worry about. But his earlier exhilaration vanished. Alice’s pretty, wistful face seemed to float constantly before his eyes.

“What a paradox,” he muttered. “I am a ghost and I am being haunted!”

It was a pity he had resolved not to listen to any further conversations for he would have been alarmed at what took place later that evening.

The portrait had been found and was much exclaimed over. The present Duke marveled over its reappearance and decided to hang the portrait of Agnes, Eighth Duchess of Haversham, in the hall.

The houseguests were asked to attend the small ceremony. Webb and Harry Russell, still smouldering at each other and looking very much the worse for wear, were present if not correct. Bessant was supervising the efforts of two footmen to lift the portrait into place.

Suddenly the Groom of the Chambers drew in his breath in a sharp hiss. His eyes were fastened on the necklace around the lady’s neck in the portrait. In a flash he knew he had seen that necklace before. He had seen it round that so-called French Comtesse’s neck.