Mr. Funk almost ran across the hall, so great was the magic of a title. “My dear Lord Harold Webb,” he said, thrusting his butler aside with one pudgy shoulder. “Come in! Come in! I was about to retire. But no matter. You shall take wine with me.”

As Webb walked into the hall, two men followed him. “My friends,” said Webb, not troubling to introduce the small weedy man and the tall, cadaverous one who followed him. But Mr. Funk was sure they were lords as well and led the way into an overstuffed sitting room, calling on his servants to bustle about and bring refreshment for the guests.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” asked Mr. Funk finally, when he had calmed down and seen to his guests’ comfort and had a breathing space to realize that strangers, lords or not, did not arrive unexpectedly late at night at a gentleman’s residence and demand admission.

He scratched at his nut-brown wig, carefully oiled with Rowlandson’s macassar so that a passing glance would take it for real hair, and looked slightly more warily at Lord Harold.

“Mr. Bessant,” said Webb, “is here to tell you an incredible story. You may need to brace yourself, sir, for even Mr. Russell—that’s my friend here—found the intelligence a shock.” Webb took a deep breath and pointed a finger straight at Mr. Funk’s crumpled, babyish face.

“You, sir, are being most dreadfully deceived.”

Mr. Funk’s small pouting mouth fell open in surprise. “Go ahead, Mr. Bessant,” said Webb, “and tell your story.”

And so the fat merchant listened in increasing amazement and mounting wrath as the tale of Alice, the scullery maid unfolded, a servant so wanton as to take one of the late Duke’s by-blows as a lover, steal the family jewels and set up in Town to trick the flower of the ton.

“I shall call the Runners!” gasped Mr. Funk when he could. “Oh, the shame of it. I shall be the laughingstock of the City. I was so proud of marrying a Countess. I…”

“I was engaged to the same woman myself,” said Harold Webb in a low ringing voice. He was enjoying himself immensely. “But I do not think there is any need for this disgraceful matter to receive any publicity at all.”

“You mean they are to go scot-free?” howled Mr. Funk, his heart hammering against his ribs and his blood pressure mounting to the troposphere.

“No,” said Mr. Bessant with a slow smile. “You leave it to us. We shall punish them and after that we shall drive them out of the country.”

“It all seems very unorthodox,” frowned Mr. Funk. “But why have you waited so long? You say you have known of this scandal for some time.”