“I have no doubt,” Mabane said gloomily, “that Arthur is right.  He ought to know more about it than old fogies like you and me, Arnold.  We had the money, and we ought to have insisted upon it.  You gave way far too easily.”

“That’s all very well,” I protested, “but I don’t take in a woman’s fashion paper, and Isobel assured us that the hat was all right.  She looks well enough in it, surely!”

“Isobel looks ripping!” Arthur declared, “but then, she looks ripping in anything.  All the same, the hat’s old-fashioned.  You look at the hats those girls are wearing, who’ve just come in ­flat, bunchy things, with flowers under the brim.  That’s the style just now.”

“Isobel shall have one, then,” I declared.  “We will take her West to-morrow.  We can afford it very well.”

She came up to us beaming.  She was a year older, and her skirts were a foot longer.  Her figure was, perhaps, a shade more developed, and her manner a little more assured.  In other respects she was unchanged.

“What are you two old dears worrying about?” she exclaimed lightly.  “You have the air of conspirators.  No secrets from me, please.  What is it all about?”

“We are lamenting the antiquity of your hat,” Mabane answered gravely.  “Arthur assures us that it is out of date.  It ought to be flat and bunchy, and it isn’t!”

“Geese!” she exclaimed lightly, “both of you!  Arthur, I’m ashamed of you.  You may know something about motors, but you are very ignorant indeed about hats.  Come along, all of you, and gaze at my miniatures.  I am longing to see how they look framed.”

“As regards the hat ­” I began.

“I will not hear anything more about it,” she interrupted, laughing.  “Of course, if you don’t like to be seen with me ­oh!  Why, look! look!”

We had stopped before a case of miniatures.  In the front row were two somewhat larger than the others, and Isobel’s first serious attempts.  Behind each was stuck a little ivory board bearing the magic word “Sold.”

“Sold!” Arthur exclaimed incredulously.

“It may be a mistake,” I said slowly.

Mabane and I exchanged glances.  We knew very well that, though the miniatures showed promise of talent, they were amateurish and imperfect, and the reserve which we had placed upon them was quite out of all proportion to their merit.  It must surely be a mistake!  We followed Isobel across the room.  A little elderly gentleman was sitting before a desk, engaged in the leisurely contemplation of a small open ledger.  Isobel had halted in front of him.  There was a delicate flush of pink on her cheeks, and her eyes were brilliant.

“Are my miniatures sold, please?” she exclaimed.  “My name is Miss de Sorrens.  They have a small ivory board just behind them which says ‘Sold.’”

The elderly gentleman looked up, and surveyed her calmly over the top of his spectacles.

“What did you say that your name was, madam, and the number of your miniatures?” he enquired.

“Miss Isobel de Sorrens,” she answered breathlessly, “and my miniatures are number two hundred and seven and eight ­a portrait of an elderly lady, and two hundred and eighty-nine ­a child.”

The little old gentleman turned over the pages of his ledger in very leisurely fashion, and consulted a recent entry.

“Your miniatures are sold, Miss de Sorrens,” he said, “for the reserve price placed upon them ­twenty guineas each.  The money will be paid to you on the close of the Exhibition, according to our usual custom.”

“Please tell me who bought them,” she begged.  “I want to be quite sure that there is no mistake.”

“There is certainly no mistake,” he answered, smiling.  “The first one was bought by ­let me see ­a nobleman in the suite of the Archduchess of Bristlaw, the Baron von Leibingen.  I believe that her Highness is proposing to visit the Exhibition this afternoon.  The other purchaser paid cash, but refused his name.  Ah!  Excuse me!”

He rose hastily, and moved towards the door.  A little group of people were entering, before whom the bystanders gave way with all that respect which the British public invariably displays for Royalty.  Isobel watched them with frank and eager interest.  Mabane and I moved over to her side.

“Is it true?” I asked her.

“He says so,” she answered, still a little bewildered.  “Arnold, can you imagine it?  Forty guineas!  I ­I ­”

There followed an amazing interlude.  The little party of newcomers, before whom everyone was obsequiously giving way, came face to face with us.  Mabane and I stepped back at once, but Isobel remained motionless.  An extraordinary change had come over her.  Her eyes seemed fastened upon the woman who was the central figure of the little procession, and the girl who walked by her side.  Someone whispered to her to move back.  She took no notice.  She seemed as though she had not heard.  Royalty raised its lorgnettes, and dropped them with a crash upon the polished wood floor.  Then those who were quick to understand knew that something lay beneath this unusual awkwardness.

The manager of the Gallery, who, catalogue in hand, had been prepared personally to conduct the Royal party round, looked about him, wondering as to the cause of the contretemps.  His eyes fell upon Isobel.

“Please step back,” he whispered to her, angrily.  “Don’t you see that the Princess is here, and the Archduchess of Bristlaw?  Clear the way, please!”

The manager was a small man, and Isobel’s eyes travelled over his head.  She did not seem to hear him speak.  The Archduchess recovered herself.  She took the shattered lorgnettes from the hand of her lady-in-waiting.  She pointed to Isobel.

“Who is this young person?” she asked calmly.  “Does she wish to speak to me?”

A wave of colour swept into Isobel’s cheeks.  She drew back at once.

“I beg your pardon, Madame,” she said.  But even when she had rejoined my side her eyes remained fixed upon the face of the Archduchess and her companion.

There was a general movement forward.  One of the ladies in the suite, however, lingered behind.  Our eyes met, and Lady Delahaye held out her hand.

“Your ward is growing,” she murmured, “in inches, if not in manners.  When are you going to engage a chaperon for her?”

“When I think it necessary, Lady Delahaye,” I answered, with a bow.

“You artists have ­such strange ideas,” she remarked, smiling up at me.  “You wish Isobel to remain a child of nature, perhaps.  Yet you must admit that a few lessons in deportment would be of advantage.”

“To the Archduchess, apparently,” I answered.  “One does not often see a great lady so embarrassed.”

Lady Delahaye shrugged her shoulders.  She dropped her voice a little.

“Are we never to meet without quarrelling, Arnold?” she whispered, looking up into my eyes.  “It used not to be like this.”

“Lady Delahaye,” I said, “it is not my fault.  We seem to have taken opposite sides in a game which I for one do not understand.  Twice during the last six months you have made attempts which can scarcely be called honourable to take Isobel from us.  Our rooms are continually watched.  We dare not let the child go out alone.  Now this woman from Madame Richard’s has come to live in the same building.  She, too, watches.”

“It is only the beginning, Arnold,” she said quietly.  “I told you more than a year ago that you were interfering in graver concerns than you imagined.  Why don’t you be wise, and let the child go?  The care of her will bring nothing but trouble upon you!”

Her words struck home more surely than she imagined, for in my heart had lain dormant for months the fear of what was to come, the shadow which was already creeping over our lives.  Nevertheless, I answered her lightly.

“You know my obstinacy of old, Lady Delahaye,” I said.  “We are wasting words, I think.”

She shrugged her shoulders and passed on.  Mabane touched me on the shoulder.

“Isobel would like to go,” he said.  “Arthur and she are at the door already.”

I turned to leave the place.  We were already in the passage which led into Bond Street, when I felt myself touched upon the shoulder.  A tall, fair young man, with his hair brushed back, and very blue eyes, who had been in the suite of the Archduchess, addressed me.

“Pardon me,” he said, “but you are Mr. Arnold Greatson, I believe?”

I acknowledged the fact.

“The Archduchess of Bristlaw begs that you will spare her a moment.  She will not detain you longer.”

I turned to Mabane.

“Take Isobel home,” I said.  “I will follow presently.”

We re-entered the Gallery.  The majority of the Royal party were busy examining the miniatures.  The Archduchess was talking earnestly to Lady Delahaye in a remote corner.  My guide led me directly to her.

“Her Highness permits me to present you,” he said to me.  “This is Mr. Arnold Greatson, your Highness.”

The Archduchess acknowledged my bow graciously.

“You are the Mr. Arnold Greatson who writes such charming stories,” she said.  “Yes, it is so, is it not?”

“Your Highness is very kind,” I answered.

“I learn,” she continued, “that you are also the guardian of the young lady who gave us all such a start.  Pardon me, but you surely seem a little young for such a post.”

“The circumstances, your Highness,” I answered, “were a little exceptional.”

She nodded thoughtfully.

“Yes, yes, so I have heard.  Lady Delahaye has been telling me the story.  I understand that you have never been able to discover the child’s parentage.  That is very strange!”

“There are other things in connection with my ward, your Highness,” I said, “which seem to me equally inexplicable.”

“Yes?  I am very interested.  Will you tell me what they are?”

“By all means,” I answered.  “I refer to the fact that though no one has come forward openly to claim the child, indirect efforts to induce her to leave us are continually being made by persons who seem to desire anonymity.  Whenever she has been alone in the streets she has been accosted under various pretexts.”

The Archduchess was politely surprised.

“But surely you are aware,” she remarked, “of the source of some at least of these attempts?”

“Madame Richard,” I said, “the principal of the convent where Isobel was educated, seems particularly anxious to have her return there.”

The Archduchess nodded her head slowly.

“Well,” she said, “is that so much to be wondered at?  Even we who are of the world might consider ­you must pardon me, Mr. Greatson, if I speak frankly ­the girl’s present position an undesirable one.  How do you suppose, then, that the principal of a convent boarding-school, whose sister, I believe, is a nun, would be likely to regard the same thing?”

“Your Highness knows, then, of the convent?” I remarked.

The Archduchess lifted her eyebrows lightly.  Her gesture seemed intended to convey to me the fact that she had not sent for me to answer my questions.  I remained unabashed, however, and waited for her reply.  Several curious facts were beginning to group themselves together in my mind.

“I have heard of the place,” she said coldly.  “I believe it to be an excellent institution.  I sent for you, Mr. Greatson, not, however, to discuss such matters, but solely to ask for information as to the child’s parentage.  It seems that you are unable to give me this.”

“Lady Delahaye knows as much ­probably more ­than I,” I answered.

It seemed to me that the Archduchess and Lady Delahaye exchanged quick glances.  I affected, however, to have noticed nothing.

“I will be quite candid with you, Mr. Greatson,” the Archduchess continued.  “My interest in the girl arises, of course, from the wonderful likeness to my own daughter, and to other members of my family.  Your ward herself was obviously struck with it.  I must confess that I, too, received something of a shock.”

“I think,” I answered, “that it was apparent to all of us.”

The Archduchess coughed.  For a Royal personage, she seemed to find some little difficulty in proceeding.

“The history of our family is naturally a matter of common knowledge,” she said slowly.  “Any connection with it, therefore, which this child might be able to claim would be of that order which you, as a man of the world, would doubtless understand.  Nevertheless, I am sufficiently interested in her to be inclined to take any steps which might be necessary for her welfare.  I propose to set some enquiries on foot.  Providing that the result of them be as I suspect, I presume you would have no objection to relinquish the child to my protection?”

“Your Highness,” I answered, “I could not answer such a question as that without consideration, or without consulting Isobel herself.”

The Archduchess frowned upon me, and I was at once made conscious that I had fallen under her displeasure.  I fancy, however, that I appeared as I felt, quite unimpressed.

“I cannot understand any hesitation whatsoever upon your part, Mr. Greatson,” she said.  “Under my care the child’s future would be fittingly provided for.  Her position with you must be, at the best, an equivocal one.”

“Your Highness,” I answered steadily, “my friends and I are handicapped perhaps by our sex, but we have a housekeeper who is an old family servant, and a model of respectability.  In all ways and at all times we have treated Isobel as a very dear sister.  The position may seem an equivocal one ­to a certain order of minds.  Those who know us, I may venture to say, see nothing harmful to the child in our guardianship.”

The Archduchess stared at me, and I gathered that she was not used to anything save implicit obedience from those to whom she made suggestions.  She stared, and then she laughed softly.  There was more than a spice of malice in her mirth.

“Which of you three young men are going to fall in love with her?” she asked bluntly.  “You call her a child, but she is almost a woman, and she is beautiful.  She will be very beautiful.”

“Your Highness,” I answered coldly, “it is a matter which we have not as yet permitted ourselves to consider.”

The Archduchess was displeased with me, and she took no further pains to hide her displeasure.

“Mr. Greatson,” she said, with a little wave of dismissal, “for the present I have no more to say.”

She turned her back upon me, and I at once left the Gallery.