At any moment his presence might have been detected, and he would have been involved in a situation which even the nerve and effrontery acquired during the practice of his profession could not have rendered endurable. He found a seat in an adjoining room, and sat quite still, thinking. His brain was in a whirl. He had almost forgotten the special object of his quest. He felt like a conspirator. The fascination of the unknown was upon him. Their first instinct concerning these people had been a true one. They were indeed no ordinary people. He must follow them up—he must know more about them. Once more he thought over what he had heard. It was mysterious, but it was interesting. It might mean anything. The man with Mr. Sabin he had recognised the moment he spoke. It was Baron von Knigenstein, the German Ambassador. Those were strange words of his. He pondered them over again. The journalistic fever was upon him. He was no longer in love. He had overheard a few words of a discussion of tremendous import. If only he could get the key to it! If only he could follow this thing through, then farewell to society paragraphing and playing at journalism. His reputation would be made for ever!

He rose, and finding his way to the refreshment-room, drank off a glass of champagne. Then he walked back to the main salon. Standing with his back to the wall, and half-hidden by a tall palm tree, was Densham. He was alone. His arms were folded, and he was looking out upon the dancers with a gloomy frown. Harcutt stepped softly up to him.

“Well, how are you getting on, old chap?” he whispered in his ear.

Densham started, and looked at Harcutt in blank surprise.

“Why, how the—excuse me, how on earth did you get in?” he exclaimed.

Harcutt smiled in a mysterious manner.

“Oh! we journalists are trained to overcome small difficulties,” he said airily. “It wasn’t a very hard task. The Morning is a pretty good passport. Getting in was easy enough. Where is—she?”

Densham moved his head in the direction of the broad space at the head of the stairs, where the Ambassador and his wife had received their guests.

“She is under the special wing of the Princess. She is up at that end of the room somewhere with a lot of old frumps.”

“Have you asked for an introduction?”

Densham nodded.

“Yes, I asked young Lobenski. It is no good. He does not know who she is; but she does not dance, and is not allowed to make acquaintances. That is what it comes to, anyway. It was not a personal matter at all. Lobenski did not even mention my name to his mother. He simply said a friend. The Princess replied that she was very sorry, but there was some difficulty. The young lady’s guardian did not wish her to make acquaintances for the present.”

“Her guardian! He’s not her father, then?”

“No! It was either her guardian or her uncle! I am not sure which. By Jove! There they go! They’re off.”

They both hurried to the cloak-room for their coats, and reached the street in time to see the people in whom they were so interested coming down the stairs towards them. In the glare of the electric light, the girl’s pale, upraised face shone like a piece of delicate statuary. To Densham, the artist, she was irresistible. He drew Harcutt right back amongst the shadows.

“She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life,” he said deliberately. “Titian never conceived anything more exquisite. She is a woman to paint and to worship!”

“What are you going to do now?” Harcutt asked drily. “You can rave about her in your studio, if you like.”

“I am going to find out where she lives, if I have to follow her home on foot! It will be something to know that.”

“Two of us,” Harcutt protested. “It is too obvious.”