The festivities were not broken up. As much could hardly be said for the host, who felt keenly the verbal lashing that had been administered to him before his friends. News of the robbery gradually leaked out among the guests; the generally accepted verdict was that the Masquer had appeared, only to be frightened away before he could secure any loot.
It was nearly two in the morning when Jachin Fell, who was leaving, encountered Henry Gramont at the head of the wide stairway. He halted and turned to the younger man.
"Ah—have you a pencil, if you please?"
"I think so, Mr. Fell." Gramont felt beneath his Franciscan's robe, and extended a pencil.
Jachin Fell examined it, brought a paper from beneath his domino, and wrote down a word. The paper was that on which the farewell message of the Midnight Masquer had been written.
"A hard lead, a very hard point indeed!" said Fell. He pocketed the paper again and regarded Gramont steadily as he returned the pencil. "Few men carry so hard a pencil, sir."
"You're quite right," and Gramont smiled. "I borrowed this from Bob Maillard only a moment ago. Its hardness surprised me."
"Oh!" said Jachin Fell, mildly. "By the way, aren't you the Prince de Gramont? When we met this evening, you were introduced as plain Mr. Gramont, but it seems to me that I had heard something——"
"Quite a mistake, Mr. Fell. I'm no prince; simply Henry Gramont, and nothing more. Also, an American citizen. Some of these New Orleans people can't forget the prince business, most unfortunately."
"Ah, yes," agreed Fell, shyly. "Do you know, a most curious thing——"