Gervase smiled; a slight incredulous smile.

"You think so? I am not sure! If love makes a man as thoroughly
unstrung and nervous as I am to-day, then love is a very bad
illness."

"It is the worst illness in the world," said Denzil, speaking
hurriedly and wildly. "The most cruel and torturing! And there is
no cure for it save death. My God, Gervase! You were my friend but
yesterday! I never should have thought it possible to hate you!"

"Yet you do hate me?" queried Gervase, still smiling a little.

"Hate you? I could kill you! You have been with HER!"

Quietly Gervase took his arm.

"My good Denzil, you are mistaken! I confess to you frankly I
should have been with HER--you mean the Princess Ziska, of course-
-had it been possible. But she has fled the city for the moment--
at least, according to the corpse-like Nubian who acts as porter."

"He lies!" exclaimed Denzil, hotly. "I saw her this morning."

"I hope you improved your opportunity," said Gervase,
imperturbably. "Anyway, at the present moment she is not visible."

A silence fell between them for some minutes; then Denzil spoke
again.