“Is this nonsense too?” I asked pleasantly, “is it nonsense when Mr. Wilde continually speaks of you as the Marquis of Avonshire and of Miss Constance⁠—”

I did not finish, for Constance had started to her feet with terror written on every feature. Hawberk looked at me and slowly smoothed his leathern apron.

“That is impossible,” he observed, “ Mr. Wilde may know a great many things⁠—”

“About armour, for instance, and the ‘Prince’s Emblazoned,’ ” I interposed, smiling.

“Yes,” he continued, slowly, “about armour also⁠—may be⁠—but he is wrong in regard to the Marquis of Avonshire, who, as you know, killed his wife’s traducer years ago, and went to Australia where he did not long survive his wife.”