As the mask dropped—­the ancient Greek thoughtfully adjusted his tunic.

Instantly without pause or warning the soft strain of the orchestra swept dramatically into a powerful melody of measured cadences.  It was the tune Carl had played upon his flute to Jokai of Vienna months before.  The minstrel, mask in hand, stared at the orchestra, blanched and bit his lip.

“God bless my soul!” exclaimed Queen Elizabeth to Jethro, “it’s the immigrant, Jethro, and there he was on the lace spread with his feet tied and gurgling.  I’ll never forget his eyes.”

“Jokai of Vienna!” said the Black Palmer, whistling.  “By Jove, they’ve trapped him nicely.”

For an uncomfortable instant, the silence continued, then came the saving stir of laughter and chatting.

The Bedouin with an unrelenting air of dignity and command, removed his mask and bowed low; to Diane in whose startled eyes below the Seminole turban flashed sympathy and acute regret.

“Miss Westfall,” said he gravely, “permit me to present to you, Prince Ronador of Houdania.”

White and stern, his fine eyes flashing imperially, Ronador bowed.

“Rest assured, Miss Westfall,” he said, “that I know you have not betrayed my confidence.  Baron Tregar is an ardent patriot who by virtue of his office must needs object to democratic masquerading.”

The Baron stroked his beard.

“For inspiring the musical ceremony due your rank, Prince,” he said dryly, “I crave indulgence.”

Smiling, the ancient Greek at the Baron’s elbow unmasked, to show the cheerful face of Mr. Poynter.

“Prince,” said Mr. Poynter, “I sincerely trust I have made no error in transcribing the Regent’s Hymn for our excellent musicians.  Having heard it so many times in your presence in Houdania, I could not well forget.  At your service,” with a glance at his Grecian attire, “Herodotus, father of nomads!”

But Ann Sherrill in the gorgeous raiment of a Semiramis was already at hand, sparkling italics upon her royal guest, and Philip moved aside.

“I am overwhelmed!” whispered Ann a little later.  “I am indeed!  I was not in the least aware that our mysterious incognito was a prince, were you, Diane?”

“Yes,” said Diane.  Her color was very high and she deliberately avoided the imploring eyes of Mr. Poynter.

“What in the world is it all about?” begged Ann helplessly.  “And who was the grayish monk who flitted about so mysteriously telling us that the minstrel was a prince!  It spread like wildfire.  As for you, Philip Poynter, it’s exactly like you!  To depart night before last and suddenly reappear is quite of a piece with your mysterious habit of fading periodically out of civilization.  Baron Tregar, how exceedingly delightful of you to come this way and surprise me when I fancied you were so keen about those horrid tarpon that you wouldn’t leave them for all I wrote and wrote.”