The moonlight fell on a gray streak of a car, driven by a maniac with a scarf blowing back from a turban over two wildly gleaming eyes.

Back at “Idle Times” a Capuchin monk, wandering apart from the dancers in consonance with the austere proclaiming of his garb, was studying the frivolous gamboling of a school of fountain gold-fish in the conservatory.  He looked up, scowling, to take a note from a servant.

“Colonel Von Ritz said to hand this to the gentleman masquerading as a monk,” explained the man.

“Von Ritz,” growled the monk.  “He annoys me.”

He impatiently tore open the letter and scanned it.  His brows contracted in astonished mystification, then slowly his eyes narrowed and kindled.

The scrawl ran: 

“Your Highness:  If you see neither Mr. Benton, masquerading as an Arab, her Highness, the Princess, nor myself in ten minutes from the time of receiving this, take the car which you will find ready in the garage.  My orderly will be there to act as your chauffeur.  Follow the main road to the second village.  Turn there to the right, and drive to the small bay, where you will find me or an explanation.  I have been conducting certain investigations.  The affair is urgent and touches matters of great import to Europe as well us to Your Highness.”

CHAPTER VII

IN WHICH DROMIO BECOMES ROMEO

When Cara, waiting at the bridge, had seen the car flash up, a bearded Bedouin at the wheel, she had leaped lightly to the seat beside him, without waiting for the machine to come to a full stop; then she had thrown herself back luxuriously on the cushions with a sigh of satisfaction, and had only said:  “Drive me fast.”

For a long time she lay back, drinking, in long draughts, the spiced night air, frosted only enough to give it flavor.  There was no necessity for speech, and above, the stars glittered lavishly, despite the white light of the moon.

At last she murmured half-aloud and almost contentedly:  “’Who knows but the world may end to-night?’”

Above the throbbing purr of the engine which had already done ten miles, the man beside her caught the voice, but missed the words.  He bent forward.

“I beg your pardon?” he politely inquired.

At the question she started violently, and both hands came to her heart with a spasmodic movement.  Von Ritz carried the car around an ugly rut.

“Don’t be alarmed, Your Highness,” he said, in a cold, evenly modulated voice which, though pitched low, carried clearly above the noise of the cylinders.  “I may call you ‘Your Highness’ now, may I not?  We are quite alone.  Or do you still prefer that I respect your incognita?”

The girl’s eyes blazed upon him until he could feel their intense focusing, though he kept his own fixed unbendingly on the road ahead.  Finally she mastered her anger enough to speak.