Sir John was the least superstitious of mortals, still here he was
face to face with one of these conjunctions of affairs which the
credulous accept as manifestations of some hidden power, and
sceptics as coincidences and nothing more. All the afternoon he
had been thinking of Narcisse, and yearning beyond measure for
something suggestive of his art; and here, on his plate before him,
was food which might have been touched by the vanished hand. The
same subtle influence pervaded the Chartreuse a la cardinal, the
roast capon and salad, and the sweet. At last, when the dinner was
nearly over, and when the Marchesa had apparently said all she had
to say to Van der Roet, he lifted up his voice and said,
"Marchesa, who gave you the recipe for the sauce with which the
venison was served this evening?"

The Marchesa glanced at Mrs. Sinclair, and then struck a hand-bell
on the table. The door opened, and a little man, habited in a
cook's dress of spotless white, entered and came forward. "M.
Narcisse," said the Marchesa, "Sir John wants to know what sauce
was used in dressing the venison; perhaps you can tell him."

Here the Marchesa rose and left the room, and all the rest followed
her, feeling it was unmeet that such a reunion should be witnessed
by other eyes, however friendly they might be.

* * * * * * *

"Now, you must tell us all about it," said Lady Considine, as soon
as they got into the drawing-room, "and how you ever managed to get
him out of this scrape."