He hurried up the steps and cast an eye about the place. There were no ladies unattached. As he was about to start on a tour of investigation, a polite person in brass buttons came up to him.
"Alone, sir?" he inquired pityingly.
"Quite," said Robin, still peering into the recesses.
"Then come with me, if you please. I am directed to escort you to one who is also alone. This way, sir."
Robin followed him through a door, down a narrow hallway, up a flight of stairs and out another door upon a small portico, sheltered by a heavy canvas awning. Two men were standing at the railing, looking down upon the impressionistic lights of the sunken city. The Prince drew back, his face hardening.
"What does this mean, sirrah? You said—"
At the sound of his voice the two men turned, stared at him intently for an instant and then deliberately strode past him, entered the door and disappeared. The person in brass buttons followed them.
A soft, gurgling laugh fell upon his ears—a laugh of pure delight. He whirled about and faced—one who was no longer alone.
She was seated at the solitary little table in the corner; until now it had escaped his notice for the excellent reason that it was outside the path of light from the open doorway, and the faint glow from the adjacent porches did not penetrate the quiet retreat.
He sprang toward her with a glad cry, expecting her to rise. She remained seated, her hand extended. This indifference on her part may have been the result of cool premeditation. In any event, it served to check the impulsive ardour of the Prince, who, it is to be feared, had lost something in the way of self-restraint. It is certain—absolutely certain—that had she come forward to meet him, she would have found herself imprisoned in a pair of strong, eager arms,—and a crisis precipitated. He had to be content with a warm hand-clasp and a smile of welcome that even the gloom could not hide from his devouring eyes.