“What, here?” she answered.  “Absurd.”

“By no means,” he answered.  “As you doubtless know, the exterior of the place is entirely misleading.  These people are old servants of mine.  I can answer for the luncheon.”

“You can also eat it,” came the prompt reply.  “I am returning to the carriage.”

“But—­”

Mr. Sabin emerged through the swing door.  “Your discretion, my dear Lucille,” he said, smiling, “is excellent.  The place is indeed better than it seems, and Annette’s cookery may be all that the Prince claims.  Yet I think I know better places for a luncheon party, and the ventilation is not of the best.  May I suggest that you come with me instead to the Milan?”

“Victor!  You here?”

Mr. Sabin smiled as he admitted the obvious fact.  The Prince’s face was as black as night.

“Believe me,” Mr. Sabin said, turning to the Prince, “I sympathise entirely with your feelings at the present moment.  I myself have suffered in precisely the same manner.  The fact is, intrigue in this country is almost an impossibility.  At Paris, Vienna, Pesth, how different!  You raise your little finger, and the deed is done.  Superfluous people—­like myself—­are removed like the hairs from your chin.  But here intrigue seems indeed to exist only within the pages of a shilling novel, or in a comic opera.  The gentleman with a helmet there, who regards us so benignly, will presently earn a shilling by calling me a hansom.  Yet in effect he does me a far greater service.  He stands for a multitude of cold Anglo-Saxon laws, adamant, incorruptible, inflexible—­as certain as the laws of Nature herself.  I am quite aware that by this time I ought to be lying in a dark cellar with a gag in my mouth, or perhaps in the river with a dagger in my chest.  But here in England, no!”

The Prince smiled—­to all appearance a very genial smile.

“You are right, my dear friend,” he said, “yet what you say possesses, shall we call it, a somewhat antediluvian flavour.  Intrigue is no longer a clumsy game of knife and string and bowl.  It becomes to-day a game of finesse.  I can assure you that I have no desire to give a stage whistle and have you throttled at my feet.  On the contrary, I beg you to use my carriage, which you will find in the street.  You will lunch at the Milan with Lucille, and I shall retire discomfited to eat alone at my club.  But the game is a long one, my dear friend.  The new methods take time.”

“This conversation,” Mr. Sabin said to Lucille, “is interesting, but it is a little ungallant.  I think that we will resume it at some future occasion.  Shall we accept the Prince’s offer, or shall we be truly democratic and take a hansom.”

Lucille passed her arm through his and laughed.

“You are robbing the Prince of me,” she declared.  “Let us leave him his carriage.”

She nodded her farewells to Saxe Leinitzer, who took leave of them with a low bow.  As they waited at the corner for a hansom Mr. Sabin glanced back.  The Prince had disappeared through the swing doors.