For an instant their eyes clung together in that strange mingling of glances that sometimes holds even utter strangers spell-bound by its compelling force.

Then she turned and entered the house, and Paul rode on.

But that glance went with him.  It tormented him, troubled him, perplexed him.  He felt a mad desire to turn back, to follow her into that house, and compel her to meet his eyes again.  Did she know the power of her own eyes?  Did she know a look like that had almost the force of a caress?

He told himself that they were the most beautiful eyes that he had ever seen—­and yet he could not have told the color of them to save his soul.  He began to wonder about that.  It vexed him that he could not remember.

“Eyes!” he thought, “those are not eyes!  They are living magnets, drawing a fellow on and on, and he never stops to think what color they are—­nor care!”

And then he pulled himself up sharply, and declared himself a madman for raving on the street in broad daylight over the mere accidental meeting with a pair of pretty eyes.  He—­the uncrowned king of a to-be-glorious throne!  He—­the affianced husband of the Princess Elodie of—­Hell!  He refused to think of it!  And again the horse he rode and the Park trees heard a bit of Paul Zalenska’s English profanity that should have made them hide in shame over the depravity of youth.

But the strangest thing of all was that the Boy, for the nonce, was not thinking of—­nor listening for—­the voice!

He turned as he reached the end of the Row and rode slowly back.  But the horses and groom had already gone from the gate.  And inwardly cursing his slowness, he started on a trot for Berkeley Square.

He was not very far from the Verdayne house, when, turning a sudden corner, he came upon the girl again, riding at a leisurely pace in the opposite direction.  Startled by his unexpected appearance, she glanced back over her shoulder as she passed, surprising him—­and perhaps herself, too, for girls do that sometimes—­by a ringing and tantalizing laugh!

That laugh!  Wonder upon wonders, it was the voice!

It was she—­Opal!

He wheeled his horse sharply, but swift as he was, she was yet swifter and was far down the street before he was fairly started in pursuit.  His one desire of the moment was to catch and conquer the sprite that tempted him.

Her veil fluttered out behind her on the breeze, like a signal of no-surrender, and once—­only once—­she looked back over her shoulder.  She was too far ahead for him to catch the glint of her eye, but he heard the echo of that laugh—­that voice—­and it spurred him on and on.

Suddenly, by some turn known only to herself, she eluded him and escaped beyond his vision—­and beyond his reach.  He halted his panting horse at the crossing of several streets, and swore again.  But though he looked searchingly in every possible direction, there was no trace of the fugitive to be seen.  It was as though the earth had opened and swallowed horse and rider in one greedy gulp.