And as he went along his mind was filled with thoughts of the strange situation, and of the amazing discovery he had that day made.
Lola, his charming little friend of the Nile, at whose side he had so often ridden over the desert, was actually a Princess of the blood-royal—the madcap Princess of the House of Savoy! And ere he had descended the hill her splendid carriage with its jingling harness flashed by him and she nodded merrily as he raised his hat, while two cavalry officers, recognising her, raised their hands in ceremonious salute.
He was reflecting upon those idle sunny days in the far-off Nile-land, those evenings when the western sky was diffused and glorified with gold and saffron, and the shades of night crept up from the silent bosom of the desert where the Bedouins and Bishareen halted their caravans to camp.
In that sunset hour he knew that the faces of the devout were now turned towards Mecca—away from that golden mystery and beauty that the sun had placed in the west—to recite their evening prayers. And up from the mists, as he gazed away across to the low purple hills of the Campagna rose that sweet, smiling, beautiful face—the face which he had once again gazed upon, though he had believed it had passed out of his ken for ever.
Punctually at ten o’clock that evening Waldron’s English valet, Peters—the faithful, clean-shaven, but hunch-backed old Peters who had been with him over ten years—ushered Lola, a sweet-faced, girlish figure into his sitting-room where he stood ready to receive her.
“Really, Mr Waldron, what awfully jolly quarters you have here!” she exclaimed, glancing quickly around the well-furnished bachelor room. The man he had succeeded at the Embassy believed in personal comfort, and had furnished his flat in English style. Therefore he had been fortunate in being able to purchase it cheaply, for its owner had been transferred to Tokio.
“Yes,” her host agreed: “they’re not half bad. But,” he added, “do you really think it prudent to come and visit me at this hour?”
“Why not? I couldn’t very well come in the daytime. Somebody might recognise me.”
“But is not ten o’clock at night a rather unusual time for a young lady to visit a bachelor?” he queried.
“Well, I don’t mind,” she laughed gaily. “But there, you’re such a dear, conventional old thing!”