Rue Soleil D'Or

Marotte, the butler, in dry clothes, had served luncheon--a silent,
respectable, self-respecting man, calm in his fury at the incredible
outrage perpetrated upon his person.

And now luncheon was over; the Princess at the telephone in her
boudoir; Rue in the music-room with Neeland, still excited, anxious,
confused.

Astonishment, mortification, anger, had left Neeland silent; and the
convention known as luncheon had not appealed to him.

But very little was said during that formality; and in the silence the
serious nature of the episode which so suddenly had deprived the
Princess of the olive-wood box and the papers it contained impressed
Neeland more and more deeply.

The utter unexpectedness of the outrage--the helpless figure he had
cut--infuriated him. And the more he reflected the madder he grew when
he realised that all he had gone through meant nothing now--that every
effort had been sterile, every hour wasted, every step he had taken
from Brookhollow to Paris--to the very doorstep where his duty
ended--had been taken in vain.

It seemed to him in his anger and humiliation that never had any man
been so derided, so heartlessly mocked by the gods.

And now, as he sat there behind lowered blinds in the cool half-light
of the music-room, he could feel the hot blood of resentment and
chagrin in his cheeks.

"Nobody could have foreseen it," repeated Rue Carew in a pretty,
bewildered voice. "And if the Princess Naïa had no suspicions, how
could I harbour any--or how could you?"

"I've been sufficiently tricked--or I thought I had been--to be on my
guard. But it seems not. I ought never to have been caught in such a
disgusting trap--such a simple, silly, idiotic cage! But--good Lord!
How on earth was a man to suspect anything so--so naturally planned
and executed--so simply done. It was an infernal masterpiece, Rue.
But--that is no consolation to a man who has been made to appear like
a monkey!"