“I am quite sure of that,” she said, so pointedly that he almost gasped.  She was laughing comfortably, a mischievous gleam in her dark eyes.  His laugh was as awkward as hers was charming.

“You do like to be flattered,” he exclaimed at random.  “And I shall take it upon myself to add to to-day’s measure.”  He again drew forth his pocketbook.  She looked on curiously.  “Permit me to restore the lace handkerchief which you dropped some time ago.  I’ve been keeping it for myself, but——­”

“My handkerchief?” she gasped, her thoughts going at once to that ridiculous incident of the balcony.  “It must belong to Lady Deppingham.”

“Oh, it isn’t the one you used on the balcony,” he protested coolly.  “It antedates that adventure.”

“Balcony?  I don’t understand you,” she contested.

“Then you are exceedingly obtuse.”

“I never dreamed that you could see,” she confessed pathetically.

“It was extremely nice in you and very presumptuous in me.  But, your highness, this is the handkerchief you dropped in the Castle garden six months ago.  Do you recognise the perfume?”

She took it from his fingers gingerly, a soft flush of interest suffusing her cheek.  Before she replied, she held the dainty bit of lace to her straight little nose.

“You are very sentimental,” she said at last.  “Would you care to keep it?  It is of no value to me.”

“Thanks, I will keep it.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” she said inconsequently, stuffing the fabric in her gauntlet.  “You have something else in that pocketbook that I should very much like to possess.”

“It can’t be that Bank of England—­”

“No, no!  You wrapped it in a bit of paper last week and placed it there for safe keeping.”

“You mean the bullet?”

“Yes.  I should like it.  To show to my friends, you know, when I tell them how near you were to being shot.”  Without a word he gave her the bullet that had dropped at his feet on that first day at the chateau.  “Thank you.  Oh, isn’t it a horrid thing!  Just to think, it might have struck you!” She shuddered.

He was about to answer in his delirium when a sharp turn in the road brought them in view of the chateau.  Not a hundred yards ahead of them two persons were riding slowly, unattended, very much occupied in themselves.  Their backs were toward Chase and the Princess, but it was an easy matter to recognise them.  The glance which shot from the Princess to Chase found a peculiar smile disappearing from his lips.

“I know what you are thinking,” she cried impulsively “You are wrong—­very wrong, Mr. Chase.  Lady Deppingham is a born coquette—­a born trifler.  It is ridiculous to think that she can be seriously engaged in a—­”

“It isn’t that, Princess,” he interrupted, a dark loot in his eyes.  “I was merely wondering whether dear little Mrs. Browne is as happy as she might be.”