There were the usual sly hits at several well-known society women whose public charities covered a multitude of private sins, followed by a very inadequately veiled reference to the chief actors in a recent divorce case, and then-- Diana's eyes glued themselves to the printed page before her. Very deliberately she set down her cup on the tray beside her, and taking up the paper again, re-read the paragraph which had so suddenly riveted her attention. It ran as follows:-- "Is it true that the _nom de plume_ of a dramatist, well-known in London circles, masks the identity of the son of a certain romantic royal duke who contracted a morganatic marriage with one of the most beautiful Englishwomen of the seventies? "It would be curious if there proved to be a connecting link between this whisper and the recent disappearance from the stage of the popular actress who has been so closely associated with the plays emanating from the gifted pen of that same dramatist. "Interested readers should carefully watch forthcoming events in the little state of Ruvania." Diana stared at the newspaper incredulously, and a half-stifled exclamation broke from her. There was--there _could_ be--no possible doubt to whom the paragraph bore reference. "_A well-known dramatist and the popular actress so closely associated with his works_"--why, to any one with the most superficial knowledge of plays and players of the moment, it was as obvious as though the names had been written in capitals. Max and Adrienne! Their identities linked together and woven into a fresh tissue of mystery and innuendo! Diana smiled a little at the suggestion that Max might be the son of a royal duke. It was so very far-fetched--fantastic in the extreme. And then, all at once, she remembered Olga's significant query of long ago: "_Have you ever asked him who he is?_" and Max's stern refusal to answer the question when she had put it to him. At the time it had only given an additional twist to the threads of the intolerable web of mystery which had enmeshed her married life. But now it suddenly blazed out like a beacon illumining the dark places. Supposing it were true--supposing Max _had_ been masquerading under another name all the time--then this suggestive little paragraph contained a clue from which she might perhaps unravel the whole hateful mystery. Her brows drew together as she puzzled over the matter. This history of a morganatic marriage--it held a faint ring of familiarity. Vaguely she recollected having heard the story of some royal duke who had married an Englishwoman many years ago. For a few minutes she racked her brain, unable to place the incident. Then, her eyes falling absently upon the newspaper once more, the last word of the paragraph suddenly unlocked the rusty door of memory.