“Why the devil didn't you tell me it was there?” exploded Dickey.
“Does Lady Jane make an R that looks like a streak of lightning with all sorts of angles?”
“She makes a very fashionable—what do you mean by inspecting my mail? Are you establishing a censorship?” Dickey was guilty of an unheard of act—for him. He was blushing.
“My boy, I did not know it was your property until after I had carefully deciphered every letter in the name. I agree with you; she writes a very fashionable alphabet. The envelope looked thick, to say the least. It must contain a huge postscript.”
“Or a collection of all the notes I have written to her. I'll go back, if you don't mind, however. I'm curious to know who it's from.”
Dickey went back to read his voluminous letter, and Quentin seated himself on a bench in the park. A voice from behind brought him sharply from a long reverie.
“Mr. Quentin, last night, possibly in the heat of excitement, you inferred that I was in some way accountable for the controversy which led to the meeting between Prince Kapolski and your friend. I trust that I misunderstood you.”
Quentin was on his feet and facing Prince Ravorelli before the remark was fairly begun, and he was thinking with greater rapidity than he had ever thought before. He was surprised to find Ugo, suave and polite as ever, deliberately, coolly rushing affairs to a climax. His sudden decision to abandon the friendly spirit exhibited but half an hour before was as inexplicable as it was critical. What fresh inspiration had caused him to alter his position?
“We say many things when we are under stress of excitement,” said Phil, sparring for time and his wits. Count Sallaconi was standing deferentially beside the prince. Both gentlemen had their hats in their hands, and the air was pregnant with chill formality.
“Can you recall my words, Prince Ravorelli?”