“The first lady was old and bent. I think Mr Hicks caught sight of her the night before, and frightened her away. There was nothing particular about her face. The other was taller, but not really tall. She let her veil fall when she was standing beside you, and I saw that her hair was white, but her face looked quite young—comparatively.”
Cyril closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again slowly. “And did she do nothing but look at me?”
“She clasped her hands—like this. I don’t know whether it was because she was glad or sorry.”
“Is that all? You are sure there was nothing else?”
“She—she stooped down and—and kissed you, Count.” Mansfield’s abashed voice would have provoked his auditor to laughter at any other moment, but now Cyril only nodded approvingly.
“I thought I couldn’t have dreamt it. And after that?”
“They slipped back into the passage, and disappeared suddenly. I can’t find any door through which they could have gone.”
“Well, we can think of that presently. I am heartily obliged to you, Mansfield. It’s a comfort to have a man about one who can tell his tale sensibly, without interlarding it with wretched feeble jokes. Any one could make a joke of this affair, no doubt, but not when it is looked at in the proper light. Of course you know who the lady is?”
“I, Count?” Mansfield’s astonished face attested his ignorance sufficiently.
“It has never once struck you that the Queen of the Desert and Queen Ernestine are one and the same person? Nor that one of the letters which the sheikh carried in that leather bag of his was from Fräulein von Staubach, and contained the news of your invasion of Brutli, and identified me with the Prince of the Jews?”