Even now in response to her violent outburst he broke into renewed laughter.

“Better and better!  Ah, mistress,” he said with a shake of the head, “of a truth you are more blind than I thought.”

“You are more insolent, master, than I had thought possible.”

“Yet meseems, fair lady, that in the lonely and mysterious stranger you might have remembered your humble and devoted servant,” he said, drawing his figure up towards her.

“You! an old friend!” she said contemptuously.  “I have ne’er set eyes on you in my life before.”

“To think that the moon should be so treacherous,” he rejoined imperturbably.  “Will you not look a little closer, fair mistress, the shadows are somewhat dark, mayhap.”

She felt his one eye fixed upon her with cold intentness, a strange feeling of superstitious dread suddenly crept over her from head to foot.  Like a bird fascinated by a snake she came a little nearer, down the steps, towards him, her eyes, too, riveted on his face, that curious face of his, surrounded by the heavy perruque hiding ears and cheeks, the mouth overshadowed by the dark mustache, one eye concealed beneath the black silk shade.

He seemed amused at her terror and as she came nearer to him, he too, advanced a little until their eyes met—­his, mocking, amused, restless; hers, intent and searching.

Thus they gazed at one another for a few seconds, whilst silence reigned around and the moon peered down cold and chaste from above, illumining the old house, the neglected garden, the vast park with its innumerable dark secrets and the mysteries which it hid.

She was the first to step back, to recoil before the ironical intensity of that fixed gaze.  She felt as if she were in a dream, as if a nightmare assailed her, which in her wakeful hours would be dissipated by reason, by common sense, by sound and sober fact.

She even passed her hand across her eyes as if to sweep away from before her vision, a certain image which fancy had conjured up.

His laugh—­strident and mocking—­roused her from this dreamlike state.

“I ...  I ... do not understand,” she murmured.

“Yet it is so simple,” he replied, “did you not ask me awhile ago if nothing could be done?”

“Who ... who are you?” she whispered, and then repeated once again:  “Who are you?”

“I am His Royal Highness, Prince Amede d’Orleans,” said Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse lightly, “the kinsman of His Majesty, King Louis of France, the mysterious foreigner who works for the religious and political freedom of his country, and on whose head le roi soleil hath set a price ... and who, moreover, hath enflamed the romantic imagination of a beautiful young girl, thus winning her ardent love in the present and in the near future together with her vast fortune and estates.”

He made a movement as if to remove his perruque but she stopped him with a gesture.  She had understood.  And in the brilliant moonlight a complete revelation of his personality might prove dangerous.  Lady Sue herself might still—­for aught they knew—­be standing in the dark room behind—­unseen yet on the watch.