Suddenly she started, in alarm, and ran to the dining room door. She had heard a loud groan. Even while she reached to turn the handle she heard it again; but not from the direction of the dining room. If sound indicated truly, there was someone outside—someone in distress. Immediately, she heard a heavy tread on the verandah and a large swarthy, black-whiskered man in black clothes limped upon her horizon. She emitted a pathetic little moan of fright, turned pale and dropped everything but the bowl. Her fingers clung to that, mechanically.

The intruder removed his hat, and bowed very low.

“Guten Morgen, meine Dame. Verstehen Sie?”

“Oh—oh!” She breathed out her interjections as a sort of windy, wordless prayer to be spared more excitement even on her Wonderful Day. Until this day nothing had ever happened in Roseborough. Now, too much was happening. The swarthy man bowed again profoundly.

“J’espÈre que je ne vous dÉrange pas, madame. Comprenez-vous?”

“Oh—h! What is he saying?” Then, losing the last remnants of her poise she waved him off wildly, chattering: “I don’t wish any, thank you. No, I don’t want anything to-day. Oh—h! go-o away.”

He was unmoved by her explosion. Bowing again, he said:

“Ah, you speak the English. I cannot complain. It is your language. I also speak it perfectly—as you hear.”

She did not venture to inform him that his accent was execrable. She only stared, and her pale lips silently shaped the words “go away.”

“I speak it perfectly, but I detest it. The whole world must speak their abominable language because they will not learn any other. Even the Irish must learn English before they can curse it for sympathy. I detest the English. When I meet a stranger, I address him first in German; next”—he enumerated them rapidly—“in the French, Italian, Spanish, Russ, Magyar, Turkish and the Chinese. Then if he will not....”—with a shrug—“I condescend to speak the English—but always against my will. I detest the English.”

If Rosamond thought at all during this address, she must have thought the man mad. She was afraid to speak or move; she stared, hoping perhaps to conquer the maniac, if such he were, by the power of her fixed eye.

“Ah!—pardon.” He gave the word the French pronunciation; and stooping painfully, picked up the towel and handed it to her. Since she did not take it, he draped it over her arm, seemingly unaware that she backed away from him.

“Pardon.” He picked up the two sponges, one in each hand, and put them into the bowl. “Pardon,” and the roll of batting followed the sponges. “Pardon,” and “pardon,” et cetera, and one by one the linen strips were hung over the towel on her arm. Then he withdrew a few steps and bowed.

“What—what are you doing here?” She managed to ask at length. “Who are you?”

“Madam, my mission in your detestable country, for a few hours longer, is a secret. But my name I disclose: it is to comfort your alarms. How can one better comfort the alarms than to introduce to you Teodor Carl Peter Lassanavatiewicz, of the diplomatic secret service of Woodseweedsetisky? I have been wounded in that service. Not my word alone, but my murdered leg, introduces me to you as a patriot.”

“Wounded?” she repeated automatically.

“Ja, meine Dame. I have been execrably, abominably wounded in the leg. My secret business—and, believe, it is of a most international importance—has brought me to your country. I can explain no more. I am a believer not in the discretion of woman.” He bowed. “What are you doing in my garden?” She demanded with an effort to master her fears.

He bowed.

“Bitte. That is the concern of my secret business. I wish to meet a certain person very quietly, and induce that person to return with me very quietly—to—shall I say?—yes?—his family? Yes. I wish to take a certain great person home. Why I now make myself known to you, that I will explain. In the peaceful and very secret pursuit of my duties, I have been perceived by a lady of some age and much excitement, who screams like a parrot because she sees me looking, very gently, over your balcony. I wish to give no alarms. Therefore I look no more over your balcony. Instead, I hide in the river-grass till the guests have departed and the lights you have put out. Then I return. But it becomes unsafe in your garden. There are bandits. I have been shot in the leg. Donnerwetter! I have been detestably shot in the leg! Therefore, I make myself known and request your permission to continue to watch, in the road below your garden, for the arrival of a certain person—without attacks from bandits. I will sit upon a stone under the cypress trees. I will alarm no one. I request only that I be no more attacked.”

“Oh yes! oh, please go now. No one will attack you.” He bowed again, twice.

“Grazia, grazia, signora. It is most important that my business remain secret. Be at ease. You, also, are safe while Teodor Carl Peter Lassanavatiewicz is in your garden. Comfort your alarms. I request it as a charity, madam,—will you of your goodness give me of the linen, with which you have doubtless tended the wounds of the man of your household, who has been attacked by the violent savages who infest this road. I heard the terrible battle in the darkness. I tried to escape. Psst! I was shot!”

Holding out her arm on which he had hung the strips, and keeping herself literally ’at arm’s length’ from his touch, she indicated that he was to help himself. He took three pieces, bowed after each taking, and thanked her in three languages.

“Danke schÖn. Grazia. Je vous remercie mille fois, madame.” Then, with an expression and gesture of dislike, he added, “But I forget! you speak only this desolating and dolorific English—which I detest. Adios. Farewell.” On the verandah, he paused. “When my secret business is accomplished, I rejoice to return to Europe and my own country, where there are no dangers to the distinguished official high in the secret police. I give a gold coin to the brigands of Poland or to the anarchists of our Balkans. ‘¿De dÓnde bueno? Si, SeÑor.’ So it is happily arranged. Here, no! They wait not for ‘good-evening.’ They shoot—in the leg! Donnerwetter! I, who have fought close to all the rebellions in Woodseweedsetisky without a match-burn, I have here been execrably wounded in the leg. It is insult!” His voice trembled and tears of humiliation wetted his cheeks. Drawing himself up, he put on his hat and gestured to her with the formality of a military salute. “Je vous rends grÂces, madame.” He limped out, with groans that grew fainter as he progressed into the garden.

Mrs. Mearely stared after him, still in doubt that he had really occurred. She tiptoed, fearfully, to the door and peeped out, to satisfy herself that he was not loitering on her verandah. What had he said in explanation of his presence? She tried to recall his words, but remembered only the phrases about taking a certain great person home, diplomatic service of some country, or city, hitherto unheard of, and that he had looked over the balcony before and been screamed at by a lady of some age and much excitement. So it was he and not the vagabond who had looked over her balcony, alarming Mrs. Witherby. Then who was the vagabond and why had he also come to Villa Rose? Was there any connection between the two? Were they both dark and secret “gentlemen burglars,” about to strip Villa Rose of all its antiques? She rejected this suspicion firmly, as soon as it rose. Romance forbade it.

In putting the bowl back on the stand she knocked off the Digest and the Browning. Automatically, she picked them up. The caption “A Runaway Prince” caught her eye and held it. Gradually her expression changed. The colour burned in her cheeks again, as the thrill of amazement and excitement palpitated through her. She scanned the article feverishly, muttering snatches of it aloud.

“‘The Runaway Prince! Secret search through Europe, Britain, and America.’ The Prince is ‘eccentric, romantic, artistic, a connoisseur.’—Of course! He picked out the Turner at once! and the Buddha! Oh, can it be...?” She consulted the paper again. “‘The prince is fond of entering, incognito, the homes of humble folk—frequently attired like a vagabond.’” The paper fell from her hand. “‘Fond of entering the homes’—‘secret search’—‘to bring a certain great person home’—? Oh, it is—it is the prince! A prince has come to me, on my Wonderful Day!”