"
"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.
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