"Who chooses the other black Knave?" asked Moore, sweeping off his hat, and bowing with it held across his heart. I noted he had changed his voice.
"I do," said she who had styled us "Satan's Twins;" and she gave him her hand.
He, who had been with them, shrugged his shoulders and turned to her who had spoken first, "Mademoiselle," said he, "I am waiting to be chosen."
She laughed. "Mademoiselle will be deeply honored," she said, "if monsieur will deign to accept the only Queen that is left."
It chanced that none of these four Masques had gone through the reception room while we were behind the curtains, so, of course, I had not the slightest notion of their identity. It was quite possible Moore would be able to make a good guess; and, I fancied, he had already placed my Queen—she of the musical laugh. However, so long as they did not discover me, it mattered not at all who they were. I could trust Moore to get me away from them if he found it wise. So I devoted myself to my companion.
She was of good height and rather slender, and wore a blue gown, with powdered hair. Her face and ears were completely hidden by her mask, but, judging from the bit of neck that was visible, and other indications, she was not over twenty-five. I let her pick the way, and we led the others slowly around through the part of the Garden most removed from the house and where the Masques were fewest. I took it, that she had no desire to be prominent, and I was very well content.
She was a rare flirt, though—that, I knew, before we had gone a hundred yards; and it kept my wits very busy to hold my own even moderately well, and to keep from giving her any clue to my identity.
"Do you know, monsieur," she said, presently, "you and your friend are not the only two men here, to-night, who are dressed alike?"
"Are they black knaves, too?" I asked.
She tapped me on the arm with her fan.