Therefore (Diantha argued) the Lone Wolf must be a confirmed solitary and misogynist—­very much like this Monsieur Lanyard, according to reports which declared the latter to be a man who kept to himself, had many acquaintances and not one intimate, and was positively insulated against wiles of woman.

But—­granting all this—­it was none the less true that the utmost diligence, spurred by the pique, ill-will, and ambition of the police of all Europe, had failed as yet to forge any link between the supercriminal of the age and the distinguished connoisseur of art.  Other than Lady Diantha and the gossips whose arguments she was retailing, never a soul (so far as Sofia knew) had ventured to breathe a breath of suspicion upon the good repute of Monsieur Lanyard.

In short, Diantha’s conjectures had been entirely second-hand, and not even meant to be taken seriously.

And yet the suggestion had fastened firm hold upon the imagination of the Princess Sofia.

If it were true ... what an adventure!

There was unaccustomed light of daring in the eyes of the princess, unwonted colour tinted her cheeks.

The hansom stopped, discharged the fairest fare it had ever carried, and rattled off, leaving Sofia just a trifle daunted and dubious, the animation of her anticipations something dashed by the uncompromising respectability, the self-conscious worthiness of Halfmoon Street.

Enfolded in the very heart of Mayfair, its brief length bounded on the north by Curzon Street (its name alone sufficient voucher for its character), on the south by Piccadilly (hereabouts somewhat oppressive with its hedge of stately clubs, membership in any one of which is equivalent to two years’ unchallenged credit) Halfmoon Street is largely given over to furnished lodgings.  But it doesn’t advertise the fact, its landlords are apt to be retired butlers to the nobility and gentry, its lodgers English gentlemen who have brought home livers from India, or assorted disabilities from all known quarters of the globe, and who desire nothing better than to lead steady-paced lives within walking distance of their favourite clubs.  So Halfmoon Street remains quietly estimable, a desirable address, and knows it, and doggedly means to hold fast to that repute.

A strange environment (Sofia thought) for an adventurer like the Lone Wolf.

But then—­of course!—­Diantha’s innuendoes had been based on flimsiest hearsay.  The chances were that Michael Lanyard was an utterly uninteresting person of blameless life.

So thinking, the Princess Sofia was sensible of a pang of regret, and tried to be prepared against bitter disappointment as she rang the bell.  Either she would fail to obtain admittance (perhaps the lady whom he was really expecting had forestalled her) or else Lanyard would fail to come home in time to catch her!  Quite probably it would turn out to be a dull and depressing evening, after all....