He saw him recall himself from his dream with a smile and then he rose and, after helping to arrange a silvery blue scarf round the girl’s shoulders, gave her his arm just as Marco skipped out of his fourth-row standing-place.

It was a rather warm night and the corridors were full.  By the time Marco had reached the balcony floor, the pair had issued from the little door and were temporarily lost in the moving numbers.

Marco quietly made his way among the crowd trying to look as if he belonged to somebody.  Once or twice his strong body and his dense black eyes and lashes made people glance at him, but he was not the only boy who had been brought to the opera so he felt safe enough to stop at the foot of the stairs and watch those who went up and those who passed by.  Such a miscellaneous crowd as it was made up of—­good unfashionable music-lovers mixed here and there with grand people of the court and the gay world.

Suddenly he heard a low laugh and a moment later a hand lightly touched him.

“You did get out, then?” a soft voice said.

When he turned he felt his muscles stiffen.  He ceased to slouch and did not smile as he looked at the speaker.  What he felt was a wave of fierce and haughty anger.  It swept over him before he had time to control it.

A lovely person who seemed swathed in several shades of soft violet drapery was smiling at him with long, lovely eyes.

It was the woman who had trapped him into No. 10 Brandon Terrace.

XXI

“HELP!”

Did it take you so long to find it? asked the Lovely Person with the smile.  “Of course I knew you would find it in the end.  But we had to give ourselves time.  How long did it take?”

Marco removed himself from beneath the touch of her hand.  It was quietly done, but there was a disdain in his young face which made her wince though she pretended to shrug her shoulders amusedly.

“You refuse to answer?” she laughed.

“I refuse.”

At that very moment he saw at the curve of the corridor the Chancellor and his daughter approaching slowly.  The two young officers were talking gaily to the girl.  They were on their way back to their box.  Was he going to lose them?  Was he?

The delicate hand was laid on his shoulder again, but this time he felt that it grasped him firmly.

“Naughty boy!” the soft voice said.  “I am going to take you home with me.  If you struggle I shall tell these people that you are my bad boy who is here without permission.  What will you answer?  My escort is coming down the staircase and will help me.  Do you see?” And in fact there appeared in the crowd at the head of the staircase the figure of the man he remembered.

He did see.  A dampness broke out on the palms of his hands.  If she did this bold thing, what could he say to those she told her lie to?  How could he bring proof or explain who he was—­and what story dare he tell?  His protestations and struggles would merely amuse the lookers-on, who would see in them only the impotent rage of an insubordinate youngster.