Noiselessly the Princess tiptoed to the glazed partition that separated the inner chamber from the wine-shop, and drawing back a curtain gazed cautiously through the chink.
A couple of men—as indigent in appearance as the rest of the throng—had entered the shop and were talking to the landlord. The latter was all civility and smiles, but his customers were regarding the newcomers with glances of deep suspicion and resentment.
After gazing a few seconds, the Princess returned to Trafford, and taking him by the hand led him rapidly through another door into a street at the back.
"Krantz extinguished the light," she whispered. "It was not your head, stupid, that did it! It was the danger-signal agreed upon between us—there are a couple of police agents in the shop."
The touch of melodrama delighted Trafford, and the presence of danger destroyed much of his embarrassment. They were in a narrow lane, lighted at rare intervals, and half choked with snow. A bitter wind blew cheerlessly between lofty houses, but the stars burned clearly in the deep violet of the heavens.
"Where now?" he asked briefly.
"Home," answered the Princess curtly. "I'm going home—good-night!"
Trafford stood irresolute. A hand was offered him in farewell. It might be tactless to enforce his society any longer, but there were reasons—the hour and the gloom of the street if nothing else—why he could not leave her alone.
"I promised to see you home," he protested stubbornly. "I keep my promises."
"You are foolish," she returned, accepting the situation and walking briskly down the street. "This quarter of Weidenbruck is anything but a safe one, despite its present tranquillity. There are queer folk dwelling in these gabled old houses—men who live by the knife and the garote! You would be wise to reseek the civilisation of the Hôtel Concordia."