"I never dreamed that you could see," she confessed pathetically.
"It was extremely nice in you and very presumptuous in me. But, your highness, this is the handkerchief you dropped in the Castle garden six months ago. Do you recognise the perfume?"
She took it from his fingers gingerly, a soft flush of interest suffusing her cheek. Before she replied, she held the dainty bit of lace to her straight little nose.
"You are very sentimental," she said at last. "Would you care to keep it? It is of no value to me."
"Thanks, I will keep it."
"I've changed my mind," she said inconsequently, stuffing the fabric in her gauntlet. "You have something else in that pocketbook that I should very much like to possess."
"It can't be that Bank of England—"
"No, no! You wrapped it in a bit of paper last week and placed it there for safe keeping."
"You mean the bullet?"
"Yes. I should like it. To show to my friends, you know, when I tell them how near you were to being shot." Without a word he gave her the bullet that had dropped at his feet on that first day at the château. "Thank you. Oh, isn't it a horrid thing! Just to think, it might have struck you!" She shuddered.