Why did he keep thinking about her, he asked himself angrily, and why compare her with Stella? Stella was pretty enough in all conscience, and she should have the ring. He would give it to her tonight when they went out to dinner. She would thank him with a little cry of pleasure and he would slip it on her finger. When he came to thank of it, he had not given her nearly so much jewellery as he had given some of his other favourites. She was not greedy and not always asking for things like other women he had known.

Lola, the Spanish dancer, for instance, had cost him half a million francs in furs and clothes alone, and even now it annoyed him to think of the diamonds he had given her. He had been young in those days, but he had grown more cautious as he grew older. If it came to that, he had very nearly saved the price of it over the polo ponies.

The Rajah had been smiling as he entered the Villa Shalimar. The servants in the hall bowed low as they always did at his appearance, but something in the expression on their faces, in the grovelling obeisance made him suspicious that something was wrong. Invariably his oriental instinct made him scent trouble almost before it was upon him. Sharply he glanced at one of his Aides-de-Camp who had come hurrying from a sitting room at the sound of his arrival.

‘Anything wrong?’ he asked.

The Aide-de-Camp looked surprised. He was new to the job and had not yet gained the confidence of the Rajah’s servants who had been with him for many years.

‘No, Your Highness, nothing. Why do you ask?’

The Rajah made no reply. It was then that another servant approached with a note on a silver tray. The Rajah glanced down at it, but did not recognise the writing.

‘From Miss Style, Your Highness.’

The Rajah took the note in his hand. Impatiently he tore open the envelope. Stella’s large, untidy, almost illiterate writing covered two sheets of paper. The Rajah read it through with some difficulty for the spelling was erratic, then without saying a word he walked into the sitting room, followed by his Aide-de-Camp.

As the door closed behind them, the servants exchanged glances. They were well aware that Stella’s and Francois’ action in leaving the villa would mean trouble for them. When the Rajah was angry, he could be very unpleasant.

The Rajah walked across to the writing desk and laid Stella’s letter down. He turned to his Aide-de-Camp.

‘When did she leave?’ he asked.

‘Who, Your Highness?’ he asked.

‘Miss Style!’

‘Leave? But I did not know that she had left,’ the Aide-de-Camp replied uncomfortably.

‘You are a fool!’ the Rajah said rudely.

‘If Your Highness says so.’