work. The window was curtained with dark stuff, and two wax candles
burned steadily beside the writing-materials that were spread out ready
for use.

"This is the room," Don John said, speaking for the first time since
they had entered the apartments.

Dolores let her head fall back, and began to loosen her cloak at her
throat without answering him. He helped her, and laid the long garment
upon the divan. Then he turned and saw her in the full light of the
candles, looking at him, and he uttered an exclamation.

"What is it?" she asked almost dreamily.

"You are very beautiful," he answered in a low voice. "You are the most
beautiful woman I ever saw."

The merest girl knows the tone of a man whose genuine admiration breaks
out unconsciously in plain words, and Dolores was a grown woman. A faint
colour rose in her cheek, and her lips parted to smile, but her eyes
were grave and anxious, for the doubt had returned, and would not be
thrust away. She had seen the lady in the cloak and veil during several
seconds, and though Dolores, who had been watching the men who passed,
had not actually seen her come out of Don John's apartments, but had
been suddenly aware of her as she glided by, it seemed out of the
question that she should have come from any other place. There was
neither niche nor embrasure between the door and the corridor, in which
the lady could have been hidden, and it was hardly conceivable that she
should have been waiting outside for some mysterious purpose, and should
not have fled as soon as she heard the two officers coming out, since