“Yes.  Who is it?” said the young girl.

“Lord, I’ll find out,” said the flaring Alpheus, a jeweled hand at his tie as he rose.

But their host had made up his mind.  He did not know whether Mrs. Detlor did or did not recognize the voice, but he felt that she did not wish the matter to go farther.  The thing was irregular if he was a stranger, and if he were not a stranger it lay with Mrs. Detlor whether he should be discovered.

There was a curious stillness in Mrs. Detlor’s manner, as though she were waiting further development of the incident.  Her mind was in a whirl of memories.  There was a strange thumping sensation in her head.  Yet who was to know that from her manner?

She could not help flashing a look of thanks to Hagar when he stepped quickly between the Prince and the window and said in what she called his light comedy manner: 

“No, no, Richmond.  Let us keep up the illusion.  The gentleman has done us a service; otherwise we had lost the best half of Mrs. Detlor’s song.  We’ll not put him at disadvantage.”

“Oh, but look here, Hagar,” said the other protestingly as he laid his hand upon the curtains.

Few men could resist the quiet decision of Hagar’s manner, though he often laughed that, having but a poor opinion of his will as he knew it, and believing that he acted firmness without possessing it, save where he was purely selfish.  He put his hands in his pockets carelessly, and said in a low, decisive tone, “Don’t do it, if you please.”

But he smiled, too, so that others, now gossiping, were unaware that the words were not of as light comedy as the manner.  Hagar immediately began a general conversation and asked Baron to sing “The Banks o’ Ben Lomond,” feeling sure that Mrs. Detlor did not wish to sing again.  Again she sent him a quick look of thanks and waved her fingers in protest to those who were urging her.  She clapped her hands as she saw Baron rise, and the others, for politeness sake, could not urge her more.

* * * * *

For the stranger.  Only the morning of that day he had arrived at the pretty town of Herridon among the hills and moors, set apart for the idle and ailing of this world.  Of the world literally, for there might be seen at the pump-room visitors from every point of the compass—­Hindoo gentlemen brought by sons who ate their legal dinners near Temple Bar; invalided officers from Hongkong, Bombay, Aden, the Gold Coast and otherwhere; Australian squatters and their daughters; attaches of foreign embassies; a prince from the Straits Settlements; priests without number from the northern counties; Scotch manufacturers; ladies wearied from the London season; artists, actors and authors, expected to do at inopportune times embarrassing things, and very many from Columbia, happy land, who go to Herridon as to Westminster—­to see the ruins.