But the questions that surged into his mind had no time to complete themselves, much less to find answers, for the princess had crossed the ball-room and was now but a few yards distant. He was certain she had not seen him, and he turned his back to avoid her for a double reason; because, in his shame he shrunk from the meeting, and because he feared seeing him there unexpectedly might deeply startle her and even be her betrayal. But a hand fell upon his arm, and a voice in French--Prince Berloff’s voice--fell upon his ears: “Drexel, I want you to meet my cousin, Princess Valenko.” He would have spared her this public show of her dismay if he could, but now it was beyond him. Hating himself that it fell to his part thus to be her undoing, he turned and looked her in the face. But there was no falling back, no consternation, not so much as a start. She gave him a straight cold look, in which there was not the faintest recognition of a previous meeting. So surprised was he by her self-command that he could only mumble his way through the introduction, and he only vaguely heard her express in composed, formal phrases her pleasure at meeting one who was in a manner to be a relative. Then the others who had surrounded her were for a moment swept away, and they two were left alone together, face to face. The few sentences they had exchanged had been in French. “Princess, I want to apologize--yes, a thousand times,” Drexel said hurriedly in English, “for the caddish way I spoke to you four nights ago.” Her answer was to gaze at him with a puzzled, blank expression. “I cannot tell you how ashamed I am,” Drexel hurried on. “And I want to assure you”--this barely above a whisper and with all his earnestness--“that I shall never breathe a word of your secret.” Still the puzzled, blank expression. “Won’t you--after a time--forgive me? And won’t you trust me?” Still she wore the same non-understanding look. Suddenly a dazing idea flashed into him. “Perhaps you do not speak English?” he asked in French. She smiled faintly, in amused bewilderment. “Yes--a vair leetle,” she said, in anything but Sonya’s pure and fluent English. “I understand Meestair Drexel’s words. But what he means--” She shook her head. “I think you make some meestake.” She was carried away from him before he could speak again, giving him a half-friendly nod from her imperious head. After all, had he made a mistake? After all, was it possible that she was not Sonya? Could it be that he was the witness and victim of one of those strange caprices of nature which now and again casts two unrelated persons, perhaps from the extremes of the social scale, in the same mould? Could it be that Sonya was merely the double of Princess Valenko? Or was this just an unparalleled exhibition of nerve on the princess’s part--a marvellous bit of acting?