to cluster about the quivering corners of her mouth, the long black
lashes fell for a moment, a soft radiance came to her eyes, and
she asked:--

"Which shall it be, Sir Max, Yolanda or the princess?"

"Yolanda," cried Max, huskily, while he held out his hands to her. Quick
as the movement of a kitten, she sprang to him and allowed his arms to
close about her for one brief moment. While one might count ten she
rested her head on his breast, but all too quickly she turned her face
to his and whispered:--

"Are you sure? Is it Yolanda?"

"Yes, yes, Yolanda. Thank God! it is Yolanda," he replied, placing his
hand before his eyes. She slipped from his arms, and Max, too deeply
moved to speak, walked over to the window and looked out upon the
frowning walls of Peronne the Impregnable. There was irony for you!

Probably Max was not sure that Yolanda was Yolanda; but, if he was,
conviction had come through his emotions, and it might be temporary. He
was, however, soon to be convinced by evidence so cunningly constructed
that he was compelled to abandon the testimony of his own eyes and
accept that of seemingly incontestable facts.

"We are to dine privately with the duke at twelve o'clock," I said,
while Max was standing at the window.

"Indeed?" asked Yolanda, arching her eyebrows; surprise and displeasure
evident in her voice. She glanced at the great clock, then looked toward