“I’m so glad,” she said; “Helen’s a dear—and so are you.” Then she gave a little laugh. “This seems to have been a rather busy afternoon for Cupid.”
“Another?—Mlle. d’Essoldé and Moore?”
She nodded. “Yes, but not a word of it, either—not even to Helen,” quizzically.
“No, not even to Helen,” he said with well affected gravity, his lips twitching the while.
A footman entered and passed a note to Colonel Bernheim, but the Princess’ eyes had caught the pink of the envelope and she knew it was a wire, and of exceeding importance to be brought there now—and it was for the Archduke; if it were for her, Moore would have got it. Chatting gayly with Courtney, she yet watched Bernheim, as he read the message, holding it down, out of sight.
It seemed to be very brief, for almost instantly he glanced at the Archduke—hesitated—then sent it to him.
“What is it, Armand?” she said, as he took it. “What has Lotzen done now?”
“Why Lotzen?” he laughed, spreading the sheet on the cloth before them.
It was dated Dornlitz:—
“The Duke arrived here at eight-thirty this evening on the express from the North. He was in disguise.
“Epping.”