A dreadful suspicion crossed Miss Rochdale’s mind. “Good heavens, he is not—he surely cannot be—deranged, sir?” she exclaimed.

“No, he is quite sane,” he answered. “It is brandy, not madness, to which the greater part of his propensity for evil is attributable.”

“Brandy?”she gasped.

He raised his brows. “Yes, I thought you had not been told the whole,” he said. “I am sorry. I intended—and indeed ordered—otherwise.”

Miss Rochdale now realized that not her charge but her employer was mentally deranged. She rose to her feet, saying with a firmness which she hoped concealed her inward alarm, “I think, sir, it would be best that I should present myself without further loss of time to Mrs. Macclesfield.”

“To whom?” he asked, rather blankly.

“Your wife!” she said, retreating strategically toward the door.

He said with unruffled calm, “I am not married.”

“Not married?” she cried. “Then—have I been under a misapprehension? Are you not Mr. Macclesfield?”

“Certainly not,” he replied. “I am Carlyon.”

He appeared to think that this statement was sufficient to apprise her of all she could possibly wish to know about him. She was wholly bewildered, and could only stammer, “I beg your pardon! I thought—But where, then, is Mrs. Macclesfield?”

“I do not think I know the lady.”

“You do not know her! Is this not her house, sir?”

“No,” he said.

“Oh, there has been some dreadful mistake!” she cried distressfully. “I do not know how it can have come about! Indeed, I am very sorry, Mr. Carlyon, but I think I am come to the wrong house!”

“So it would appear, ma’am.”

“It is the most mortifying circumstance! I do beg your pardon! But when the servant asked me if I was come in answer to the advertisement I thought—But I should have inquired more particularly!”