Toward their table the prince was slowly making his way, skilfully avoiding the dancers, yet looking neither to the right nor to the left. His eyes were fastened upon John. If he had been drinking, as Sophy suggested, there were few signs of it. His walk was steady; his bearing, as usual, deliberate and distinguished.
He came to a standstill beside them. Sophy's fingers clutched at the tablecloth. The prince looked from one to the other.
"You have robbed me of a guest, Mr. Strangewey," he remarked; "but I bear you no ill-will. It is very seldom that one sees you in these haunts of dissipation."
"It is a gala night with me," John replied, his tone raised no more than usual, but shaking with some new quality. "Drink a glass of wine with me, prince," he invited, taking the bottle from the ice-pail and filling a tumbler upon the table. "Wish me luck, won't you? I am engaged to be married!"
"I wish you happiness with all my heart," the prince answered, holding his glass up. "May I not know the name of the lady?"
"No doubt you are prepared for the news," John told him. "Miss Maurel has promised to become my wife."
The prince's hand was as steady as a rock. He raised his glass to his lips.
"I drink to you both with the greatest pleasure," he said, looking John full in the face. "It is a most remarkable coincidence. To-night is the anniversary of the night when Louise Maurel pledged herself to me in somewhat different fashion!"
John's frame seemed for a moment to dilate, and fire flashed from his eyes.
"Will you be good enough to explain those words?" he demanded.