The night was chilly, a full moon rode serenely in the skies; there was a touch of frost in the air and more than a suspicion of frost on the sidewalk. Sir Ralph Sapson’s car was waiting, but he ordered the chauffeur to drive home, saying that he would prefer to walk. Sir Ralph lived in Park Lane so that he had nearly a mile to cover, but he was in that mood which made light of so unusual an exercise. He reached the door of his imposing residence and his hand was on the bell when he heard his name called. He had noticed as he walked up to his door that a little distance along the road was a big motor car, its head lamps gleaming and a chauffeur busy tinkering with the engine. “I am afraid you don’t know me,” said a sweet voice. Sir Ralph raised his hat. The girl who stood on the sidewalk was obviously a lady. She was as obviously beautifully dressed, and Sir Ralph who had an appraising eye valued the ermine cloak she wore at something not far short of a thousand pounds. A single broad collar of diamonds about her slender throat was all the jewellery she wore. “I am afraid I don’t,” he said. “I only met you once,” said the girl timidly, “in Paris. You were introduced to me in the foyer of--” “Oh, yes, at the Opera, of course,” said Sir Ralph who, amongst other things, was a patron of the Arts. She nodded and seemed pleased that he had remembered her, a compliment which Sir Ralph did not fail to observe. “My car has broken down,” she said, “and I was wondering if I could beg your hospitality. It is so horribly shivery here.” She drew her cloak tighter around her. “With all the pleasure in life,” said Sir Ralph heartily, “but I have only a bachelor’s establishment, you know,” he laughed. He rang the bell and the door was opened instantly. “Put some lights in the drawing room,” he said to the servant. “Is there a fire there?” “Yes, Sir Ralph,” said the man. “Can I get you some coffee or a little wine?” She had pulled a big chair up before the blaze and was resting her little white slippers upon the silver fender. Her shapely hands were outspread to the fire and Sir Ralph noted that on her fingers there was no sign of the plain gold circle of bondage. “You will think it awfully rude in me, but I cannot recall your name,” he said, when the servant had gone. “I don’t suppose you do, my name is rather a barbarous one,” she laughed. “I am the Princess Bacheffski.” “Why, of course!” said Sir Ralph heartily, “I remember distinctly now.” To do him justice, Russian princesses are not unusual phenomena in Paris and he had a very bad memory for foreign names.