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 The lady in the landau raised her lorgnettes and calmly surveyed the waiting nobleman.

“How very interesting!” she purred, adding aloud so that the subject of her request could not fail to hear, “Why don’t you introduce him, instead of keeping him standing there? We Americans are death on dukes, you know.”

At a gesture from Forsyth, who tried to convey his disgust by a look, Beaumanoir limped forward, smiling. His misfortunes had made him something of a democrat, and he had always been ready to see the comic side of things till tragedy that morning had claimed him for its own. In meeting the advances of the agent Jevons in the Bowery saloon he had been largely influenced by the humor of the situation—of the scion of a ducal house consenting to “get a bit” by passing forged bonds.

Mrs. Talmage Eglinton, a handsome blonde with an elegant figure and a childish voice, received the Duke with effusion.

“I stopped my carriage to ask Mr. Forsyth to tea on Saturday,” she prattled. “I do hope your Grace will come too. I am staying at the Cecil, and shall be delighted to see you.”

The unblushing effrontery of the invitation