“Perhaps not,” he admitted.  “But you must remember that suspicion is of itself a grievous embarrassment.  No man likes to feel that he is being suspected of murder.  By the bye, is it known whom the unfortunate person was?”

“The servant of a French nobleman who is staying in the hotel,” Mr. Brott remarked.  “I heard as much as that.”

Mr. Sabin smiled.  Lady Carey glanced at him meaningly.

“You have worried the Prince quite sufficiently,” she whispered.  “Change the subject.”

Mr. Sabin bowed.

“You are very considerate—­to the Prince,” he said.

“It is perhaps for your sake,” she answered.  “And as for the Prince —­well, you know, or you should know, for how much he counts with me.”

Mr. Sabin glanced at her curiously.  She was a little flushed as though with some inward excitement.  Her eyes were bright and soft.  Despite a certain angularity of figure and her hollow cheeks she was certainly one of the most distinguished-looking women in the room.

“You are so dense,” she whispered in his ear, “wilfully dense, perhaps.  You will not understand that I wish to be your friend.”

He smiled with gentle deprecation.

“Do you blame me,” he murmured, “if I seem incredulous?  For I am an old man, and you are spoken of always as the friend of my enemy, the friend of the Prince.”

“I wonder,” she said thoughtfully, “if this is really the secret of your mistrust?  Do you indeed fear that I have no other interest in life save to serve Saxe Leinitzer?”

“As to that,” he answered, “I cannot say.  Yet I know that only a few months ago you were acting under orders from him.  It is you who brought Lucille from America.  It was through you that the first blow was struck at my happiness.”

“Cannot I atone?” she murmured under her breath.  “If I can I will.  And as for the present, well, I am outside his schemes now.  Let us be friends.  You would find me a very valuable ally.”

“Let it be so,” he answered without emotion.  “You shall help me, if you will, to regain Lucille.  I promise you then that my gratitude shall not disappoint you.”

She bit her lip.

“And are you sure,” she whispered, “that Lucille is anxious to be won back?  She loves intrigue, excitement, the sense of being concerned in important doings.  Besides—­you must have heard what they say about her—­and Brott.  Look at her now.  She wears her grass widowhood lightly enough.”

Mr. Sabin looked across the table.  Lucille had indeed all the appearance of a woman thoroughly at peace with the world and herself.  Brott was talking to her in smothered and eager undertones.  The Prince was waiting for an opportunity to intervene.  Mr. Sabin looked into Brott’s white strong face, and was thoughtful.

“It is a great power—­the power of my sex,” Lady Carey continued, with a faint, subtle smile.  “A word from Lucille, and the history book of the future must be differently written.”