"And I accept it, monsieur, with gratitude."
Mr. Sabin stopped short. His quick ears had caught the swish of woman's gown passing along the passage outside. Emil too had heard it.
"It is the dark lady," he whispered, "who purchased from me the other powder. See, I open gently this door. Monsieur must both see and hear."
The door at the end of the passage was opened. A woman stepped out into the little bar and made her way towards the door. Here she was met by a man entering. Mr. Sabin held up his forefinger to stop the terrified exclamation which trembled on Emil's lips. The woman was Lucille, the man the Prince. It was Lucille who was speaking.
"You have followed me, Prince. It is intolerable."
"Dear Lucille, it is for your own sake. These are not fit parts for you to visit alone."
"It is my own business," she answered coldly.
The Prince appeared to be in a complaisant mood.
"Come," he said, "the affair is not worth a quarrel. I ask you no questions. Only since we are here I propose that we test the cooking of the good Annette. We will lunch together."
"By no means," he answered. "As you doubtless know, the exterior of the place is entirely misleading. These people are old servants of mine. I can answer for the luncheon."
"You can also eat it," came the prompt reply. "I am returning to the carriage."
Mr. Sabin emerged through the swing door. "Your discretion, my dear Lucille," he said, smiling, "is excellent. The place is indeed better than it seems, and Annette's cookery may be all that the Prince claims. Yet I think I know better places for a luncheon party, and the ventilation is not of the best. May I suggest that you come with me instead to the Milan?"
Mr. Sabin smiled as he admitted the obvious fact. The Prince's face was as black as night.
"Believe me," Mr. Sabin said, turning to the Prince, "I sympathise entirely with your feelings at the present moment. I myself have suffered in precisely the same manner. The fact is, intrigue in this country is almost an impossibility. At Paris, Vienna, Pesth, how different! You raise your little finger, and the deed is done. Superfluous people--like myself--are removed like the hairs from your chin. But here intrigue seems indeed to exist only within the pages of a shilling novel, or in a comic opera. The gentleman with a helmet there, who regards us so benignly, will presently earn a shilling by calling me a hansom. Yet in effect he does me a far greater service. He stands for a multitude of cold Anglo-Saxon laws, adamant, incorruptible, inflexible--as certain as the laws of Nature herself. I am quite aware that by this time I ought to be lying in a dark cellar with a gag in my mouth, or perhaps in the river with a dagger in my chest. But here in England, no!"