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They bowed and thanked him and he slowly returned to his sofa. Half an hour and she issued from her salon in street costume. Close behind her came an old-maidish German woman. As they reached the door, Grafton held it open. Her Serene Highness drew herself up coldly. He bowed with politeness and without impertinence, and closed the door behind them.

“Who was that lady?” he said to her fitter, hurrying past with her dresses on his arm.

“Her Serene Highness the Duchess Erica of Zweitenbourg, monsieur. She is the niece of His Royal Highness the Grand Duke Casimir.”

Grafton met her twice the next day. In the morning he was at the tomb of Napoleon. A woman—one of two walking together a short distance in front of him—dropped her handkerchief. He picked it up and overtook her.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” he said. “Your handkerchief.” She paused. He saw that it was Her Serene Highness. At the same time she recognized him and the smile she had begun died away. She took the handkerchief with an icy “Thanks.” He dropped back, but their way happened to be his. Her companion glanced round presently; he was near enough to hear her say, “The person is following Your Serene Highness.” He came on, passed them as if unconscious of their existence, and they changed their route.