“I wonder if your Highness will forgive me if I tell you the truth?” he went on, as though speaking to himself.
“Forgive you? Why, of course,” she laughed. “What is there to forgive?”
“Very much, Princess,” he said gravely. “I—I’m ashamed to stand here before you and confess; yet I beg of you to forgive me, and to accept my declaration that the fault is not entirely my own.”
“The fault of what?” she inquired, not understanding him.
“I will speak plainly, because I know that your good nature and your self-avowed indebtedness to me—little as that indebtedness is—will not allow you to betray me,” he said in a low, earnest tone. “You will recollect that on your Highness’s arrival at the Gare de l’Est your dressing-bag was stolen, and within it were your jewels—your most precious possession at this critical moment of your life?”
“Yes,” she said in a hard voice of surprise, her brows contracting, for she was not yet satisfied as to the stranger’s bona fides. “My bag was stolen.”
“Princess,” he continued, “let me, in all humility, speak the truth. The reason of my escape from Treysa was because your police held a photograph of me, and I feared that I might be identified. I am a thief—one of an international gang. And—and I pray you to forgive me, and to preserve my secret,” he faltered, his cheeks again colouring. “Your jewels are intact, and in my possession. You can now realise quite plainly why—why I escaped from Treysa!”
She held her breath, staring at him utterly stupefied. This man who had saved her, and so nearly lost his own life in the attempt, was a thief!