“She vanished into Siberia,” replied Miss Dene.  “Meanwhile, Mr. Falconer had had time to fall in love with her in London, just before she took her Russian engagement.  It was his sister who told me this—­perhaps to prove that there was no use my having Designs, with a capital D. He followed the girl to St. Petersburg; she disappeared.  He put the matter into the hands of a detective—­an American one, brought over on purpose—­money no object.  Then Mr. Falconer couldn’t stay any longer himself, on account of important interests on this side—­but I believe he flashed across once in a while, during the last four years, when he was supposed to be resting and seeing Europe with his sister.  She was always in the secret.  Well at last they wormed out the truth:  that the Dobieski’d been arrested as a Nihilist, secretly, and, in spite of her popularity on the stage as a singer, sent to Siberia.  With money, or influence, or both, she was rescued from some dreadful hole, and smuggled to England.  But she’d had rheumatic fever, and her beauty was gone—­she was a cripple.  Still the extraordinary man was faithful—­though he’d never even had a chance to try and make her like him.  Did you ever hear of such a lover, out of a book?”

“No,” said Angela, interested.  But something within her whispered, “There might be another such lover.”

“Specialists—­Mr. Falconer and his sister had the best—­said there was practically no hope that the girl would ever be herself again.  Yet the man wouldn’t give up.  He thought there was no place in the world like Paso Robles for performing miracles.  The doctors laughed—­because it was natural he should believe in his own country.  However, the Dobieski consented to come.  Mrs. Harland brought her over.  Now she’s been here two months, and is actually almost cured.  Do try to get a glimpse of her.  I’ve an evil idea that my noble host is going to drop off at the Springs, after shedding us encumbrances, for the sole purpose of proposing.  If I use this for my plot, I shall give myself the satisfaction of making the story end badly.”

“I dare say you’ll enjoy doing that,” Angela remarked, in her gentlest voice.

“I really must go!” exclaimed Theo, and threw her cigarette end into Angela’s golden poppies.  But she did not tell when she went downstairs, as Angela was half afraid she would, that Mrs. May was the Princess di Sereno.

Her friends had not left the veranda.  Mrs. Harland was talking to some people she knew, Falconer walking up and down looking at the ships that were still trying their speed, in sight of the hotel.

“I do wonder if the darling Angela knows about the Prince?” Theo asked herself; and then joined Falconer in his walk, not mentioning Mrs. May.

“So you’ve met that handsome big boy before?” she began.

“Hilliard?” said Falconer.  “Oh, yes, I’ve met him at Mrs. Gaylor’s.”

“Who’s Mrs. Gaylor?” Theo had the curiosity to ask.