"Your pardon, Mistress Claire," he said boldly, sweeping me with a
supercilious glance, "but am I mistaken in believing this waltz was
pledged to me?"

"By mistake, Captain," her lips smiling, her eyes steady. "It seems I had
overlooked a promise made during the afternoon."

"Oh, indeed," he turned toward me, staring insolently. "The hero of the
rescue, I presume."

I felt the restraining pressure of her hand upon my sleeve, and her voice
replied calmly, before I succeeded in finding words.

"This is the gentleman who protected me from the mob, if that be what you
mean. Permit me to present Captain Grant of the Queen's Rangers,
Lieutenant--pardon my having already forgotten your name."

"Fortesque," I stammered, intensely hating the necessary deception.

"Ah, yes--Lieutenant Fortesque, of the 42nd British Foot."

We bowed coldly, neither extending a hand, the Captain twisting his
moustache as he continued staring at me.

"Fortesque," he repeated slowly. "Fortesque; not of this garrison, I
believe."

"No, from New York," coolly. "I regret having interfered with your
programme."