"At least," I tried to console myself, "if Anne Garth or that brute Rameses comes along, I can see them."
But the crowd increased, and with many dancers on the floor it was difficult to distinguish faces. The Prince and his attendants arrived, magnificent as figures incarnated from the "Arabian Nights"; and the entrance of the principal guest was the signal for a charming surprise. From hidden apertures in the carved ceiling, rose petals—pink and white and golden yellow—began to flutter down, light as snowflakes. The great room was perfumed with attar of roses, and silver ribbon confetti, glittering like innumerable strands of spun glass, descended on the laughing dancers. My companion and I were lassoed by the fairy ropes, and looking up I was struck on the cheek with a rose thrown from a box.
The flower was thrown, not accidentally dropped. It came from a distance, aimed by a woman dressed as a nurse. She was sitting in a chair drawn close to the front of her box—a box in the second tier, close to the musicians' gallery—and was leaning on the ledge in order to take good aim. Behind her stood a tall man in chain armour, his visor so nearly covering his face as practically to mask it. He was bending over the nurse, as if to see where her rose fell.
Before I could grasp the flower it had fallen to the ground, and I had to stoop to pick it up. I was rude enough to have forgotten Lady Mary's existence until—as I was unwinding the thread which bound a thin bit of paper to the stem—she exclaimed, "A melodrama, Lord John! The jealous husband's on your track. Be careful, or he'll see that note—no, he's gone from behind her now. Perhaps he's coming down to you."
"Forgive me, Lady Mary," I said, "but this is serious. Not a love affair, I assure you, but it may be a vital matter. I must go to that box. I——"
"Don't mind me!" She took the cue, and changed her teasing tone to friendly common sense. "Here comes a man I know. He'll look after me. Go along! Why, how odd! Your friend who threw the rose is pretending to be asleep—or she's fainted!"
I glanced up from the note I had been reading while my companion talked. The nurse still leant on the broad ledge with its golden fringe, but she had laid her head on her arm. Her face I could not see.
I did not wait to make sure that Lady Mary had secured her friend in need: but semi-consciously I heard their greetings as I turned away. The entrance to the boxes was outside the ballroom, and there might have been some delay in identifying the one I wanted, but for the note attached to the rose. Anne Garth bade me come quickly to Box 18, as she feared she had been followed. "I have a letter for you from her," was added as a further inducement.
On the door of each box was a number. I knew 18 was in the second tier, and hurried up the narrow stairway which led to that row, almost rudely pushing past a Harlequin and Columbine who were coming down. Apart from them I had the stairs and corridor to myself. If the man in chain armour had altogether deserted Box 18, he had made haste to disappear—a fact so disquieting that I regretted not having smuggled Teano into the hotel to help. Being alone, I had to obey orders and go at once to the box, although I saw that keeping track of the man was equally important.
I knocked, and when no answer followed, opened the door of Number 18. The nurse sat in the same position which Lady Mary had remarked, bending forward from her chair across to the broad ledge and leaning her whole weight on it, her head on her arm.