Worcester House was one of those semi-palatial residences set down apparently for no reason whatever in the middle of Regent's Park.

It had been acquired by a former duke at the instigation of the Regent, who was his intimate friend, and retained by later generations in mute protest against the disfiguring edifices which had made a millionaire's highway of Park Lane.

Dominey, who was first scrutinised by an individual in buff waistcoat and silk hat at the porter's lodge, was interviewed by a major-domo in the great stone hall, conducted through an extraordinarily Victorian drawing-room by another myrmidon in a buff waistcoat, and finally ushered into a tiny little boudoir leading out of a larger apartment and terminating in a conservatory filled with sweet-smelling exotics.

The Duchess, who was reclining in an easy-chair, held out her hand, which her visitor raised to his lips.

She motioned him to a seat by her side and once more scrutinised him with unabashed intentness.
"There's something wrong about you, you know," she declared.
"That seems very unfortunate," he rejoined, "when I return to find you wholly unchanged." "Not bad," she remarked critically.