"Where is she?" demanded Robin, unimpressed by this glowing panegyric.
"At this instant, sir, I fancy she is rallying her forces in the very face of a helpless mirror. In other words, she is preparing for the fray. She is dressing."
"The devil! How dare you pry into the secret—"
"Abhorrent thought! I deduce, nothing more. Her maid loses herself in the halls while attempting to respond to the call for re-inforcements. She accosts a gentleman of whom she inquires the way. The gentleman informs her she is on the third, not the second etage, and she scurries away simpering, but not before confiding to me—the aforesaid gentleman—that her mistress will give her fits for being late with her hair, whatever that may signify. So, you see, I do not stoop to keyholes but put my wits to work instead."
"When did she arrive?"
"She came last night via Milan."
"From Milan?" cried Robin, astonished.
"A roundabout way, I'll admit," said the Baron, drily, "and tortuous in these hot days, but admirably suited to a purpose. I should say that she was bent on throwing some one off the track."
"And yet she came!" cried the Prince, in exultation. "She wanted to come, after all, now didn't she, Dank?" He gave the lieutenant a look of triumph.
"She is more dangerous than I thought," said the guardsman mournfully.