he passage was opened. A woman stepped out into
the little bar and made her way towards the door. Here she was met by
a man entering. Mr. Sabin held up his forefinger to stop the terrified
exclamation which trembled on Emil's lips. The woman was Lucille, the
man the Prince. It was Lucille who was speaking.

"You have followed me, Prince. It is intolerable."

"Dear Lucille, it is for your own sake. These are not fit parts for you
to visit alone."

"It is my own business," she answered coldly.

The Prince appeared to be in a complaisant mood.

"Come," he said, "the affair is not worth a quarrel. I ask you no
questions. Only since we are here I propose that we test the cooking of
the good Annette. We will lunch together."

"What, here?" she answered. "Absurd."

"By no means," he answered. "As you doubtless know, the exterior of the
place is entirely misleading. These people are old servants of mine. I
can answer for the luncheon."

"You can also eat it," came the prompt reply. "I am returning to the
carriage."

"But--"

Mr. Sabin emerged through the swing door. "Your discretion, my dear
Lucille," he said, smiling, "is excellent. The place is indeed better
than it seems, and Annette's cookery may be all that the Prince
claims. Yet I think I know better places for a luncheon party, and the
ventilation is not of the best. May I suggest that you come with me
instead to the Milan?"

"Victor! You here?"

Mr. Sabin smiled as he admitted the obvious fact. The Prince's face was
as black as night.

"Believe me," Mr. Sabin said, turning to the Prince, "I sympathise
entirely with your feelings at the present moment. I myself have
suffered in precisely the same manner. The fact is, intrigue in this
country is almost an impossibility. At Paris, Vienna, Pesth, how
different! You raise your little finger, and the deed is done.
Superfluous people--like myself--are removed like the hairs from your
chin. But here intrigue seems indeed to exist only within the pages of a
shilling novel, or in a comic opera. The gentleman with a helmet there,
who regards us so benignly, will presently earn a shilling by calling me
a hansom. Yet in effect he does me a far greater service. He stands
for a multitude of cold Anglo-Saxon laws, adamant, incorruptible,
inflexible--as certain as the laws of Nature herself. I am quite aware
that by this time I ought to be lying in a dark cellar with a gag in my
mouth, or perhaps in the river with a da