“Yes,” I said. Then, very slowly, for I confess I was much perturbed, knowing how we were at that moment hemmed in by our enemies, I added: “This theft conveyed more to His Majesty than at present appears to your Highness. It is a startling coup of those opposed to the monarchy—the confirmation of a suspicion which the Emperor believed to be his—and his alone.”
“A suspicion!” she exclaimed. “What suspicion? Tell me.”
Next moment Miss West, thin-faced and rather angular, entered the room, and we dropped our confidences. Then, at my invitation, my dainty little hostess went to the piano, and running her white fingers over the keys, commenced to sing in her clear, well-trained contralto “L’Heure Exquise” of Paul Verlaine:
La lune blanche
Luit dans les bois;
De chaque branche
Part une voix
Sous la ramée...
O bien-aimée.
Chapter Ten.
Reveals Two Facts.
When I entered my bedroom at the Hotel Métropole it wanted half an hour to midnight. But scarce had I closed the door when a waiter tapped at it and handed me a card.
“Show the gentleman up,” I said in eager anticipation, and a few minutes later there entered a tall, thin, clean-shaven, rather aristocratic-looking man in a dark brown suit—the same person whom old Igor had evidently recognised walking along King’s Road.