“D.”
Phil's brain was in a whirl. He glanced at the handsome face of Dorothy's noble lover and then at his swarthy fellow countrymen. Could they be plotters? Could he be hand-in-hand with those evil-looking men? He had delivered the note, and yet he so feared its recipient that he was employing questionable means to dispose of him. There could be no doubt as to the genuineness of the note. It was from Dorothy, and the prince had borne it to him direct from her hand.
“An invitation to dinner?” asked the prince, laughing easily. “Miss Garrison is alarmingly fond of Mr. Quentin, and I begin to feel the first symptoms of jealousy. Pardon me, I should not speak of her here, even in jest.” So sincere was his manner that the Americans felt a strange respect for him. The same thought flashed through the minds of both: “He is not a blackguard, whatever else he may be.” But up again came the swift thought of Courant and his ugly companions, and the indisputable evidence that the first named, at least, was a paid agent of the man who stood before them, now the prince, once the singer in far away Brazil.
“The mention of dinner recalls me to affairs of my own,” continued Ugo. “To-morrow night I expect a few friends here to dine, and I have the honor to ask you all to be among my guests. We shall sit down at nine o'clock, and I only exact a promise that the end may come within a week thereafter.”
The Americans could do naught but accept, but there was an oppressive sense of misgiving in their hearts. Mayhap the signal failure to carry out the plans of one night was leading swiftly and resolutely up to the success of another. For more than an hour Quentin and his friend sat silently, soberly in the former's room, voicing only after long intervals the opinions and conjectures their puzzled minds begot, only to sink back into fresh fields for thought.
“I can't understand it,” said Dickey, at last, starting to bed.
“I believe I understand it perfectly. They are on a new tack. It occurs to me that they fear we suspect something and the dinner is a sort of peace offering.”
“We may be getting into a nest of masculine Lucretia Borgias, my boy.”
“Pleasant dreams, then. Good-night!”