"But that's folly!" protested Blake; "how can you carry it through?"

"Leave that to me. I've got out of tighter places than this one. And," he added, turning to Vernon, "if you ever looked ill in your life, prepare to do it now."

Vernon was looking dreamily over Markeld's note.

"He uses adjectives well, doesn't he?" he asked. "'Such a course would be neither ingenuous nor fair.' 'Pon my word, I quite agree with him!"

"Remember, you're under orders," said Collins, sternly.

"Under reasonable orders, perhaps," admitted Vernon, quietly, with a little tightening of the muscles of the face. "I don't admit that either you or Blake is infallible. What is it you propose to do?"

"We propose, in the first place, to send Markeld this note."

Vernon took it and read it at a glance.

"A note which is, of course, a lie," he observed, dispassionately, as he handed it back.

"It is not a lie!" retorted Collins, flushing hotly. "It is, on the contrary, the absolute truth."

"There are many ways of lying," remarked Vernon, still more coolly. "It isn't so much the letter as the spirit which constitutes a lie."

"This is scarcely the time," put in Blake, "for a lecture upon ethics."

"And it would, in any event," added Vernon, "be entirely wasted upon the present audience. Well, what next?"

"I think you understand your part," answered Collins, curtly. "The only question is, are you prepared to play it?"

Vernon hesitated for an instant, his hands trembling slightly.

"I feel the veriest scoundrel," he said, bitterly. "It sickens me—but you've got me fast."

"Yes," agreed Collins, with a malicious grin, "we've got you fast."

"Though not quite as fast as you think, perhaps," added Vernon, quietly. "I warn you that I will break the bonds if they become too galling. I see that I'm going to owe Prince Frederick a hearty apology before this thing is over."

"Oh, I shan't interfere with your apology when the time conies," retorted Collins.

"I should hope not," said Vernon, still more quietly; then he turned and entered the inner room.

"You mustn't push him too hard, Arthur," said Blake, in a low tone, "or he'll kick over the traces. Remember, he is devilish high-spirited. And he won't lie."

"It takes a firm hand to keep him under control; but I'll be careful. And he won't have to lie. It's confoundedly unfortunate Markeld couldn't have left his dog at home! Just see how small a thing may affect the fate of nations!"

"Don't get philosophical," advised Blake. "There isn't time. Are you going to send that note?"

Collins sealed the missive.

"It's our only chance," he said, decidedly. "Don't you see; we've got to brazen this thing through. We're in a corner, and there's only one way out." He went to the door and opened it. "For the Prince of Markeld," he said, as he handed the note to the man who stood outside.



CHAPTER VII

An Appeal for Aid

One can easily guess with what delicious precipitation the Misses Rushford, having read the note sent to them by Lord Vernon and having recovered somewhat from the paralysis of amazement into which it had thrown them, hurried up the stair and sought the privacy of their own apartment. Here, evidently, was a full-fledged mystery enacting under their very noses, no trumpery neighbourhood mystery, either, but one of national—aye, even international—importance! It made them gasp to think of it; they were even a little frightened. By the touch of a finger the stage-door had been opened; they had been admitted behind the scenes—to the inside, as they had longed to be. And the experience was even more interesting and exciting than they had dared to hope! They were playing a part, however humble, in the great drama of European politics!

"But what can it mean?" Nell demanded, as she read the note for perhaps the twentieth time. "What can it possibly mean? Why should Lord Vernon wish to appear ill when he isn't?"

"I don't suppose he's doing it for fun," observed Susie, sagely.

"No, of course not," agreed Nell. "There isn't any fun in it that I can see. But it seems a very remarkable course of action. Some great affair of state must depend upon it," she added in a tone slightly awe-struck, for her imagination was beginning to be affected. "He seems awfully young to hold such an important place," she added.

"These English statesmen always look younger than they are," said Sue. "From his pictures, I always imagined that Chamberlain was a comparatively young man, and here I read somewhere the other day that he's nearly seventy!"

"At any rate," concluded Nell, "since it was for our sake Lord Vernon threw off the mask, so to speak, it is only fair, on our part, to keep quiet about it. Why do you think he ran away so quickly? It was almost rude."

"I thought it quite entirely rude," asserted Sue. "But maybe he saw somebody coming whom he wished to avoid."

And then both gasped simultaneously:

"The owner of the dog!"

"Of course!"

"How dense we were!"

"But who is the owner of the dog? Not an Englishman!"

"No—a German, I should say."

"Yes—did you notice his accent? And then he is tall and blond."

"Distinguished looking; and with an air about him—an autocratic manner—which makes me think he's a Somebody. He's evidently not used to being snubbed."

"It's perfectly maddening!" exclaimed Nell, with brows most becomingly wrinkled. "If we only knew something of English politics, we might be able to guess what it is all about."

"Dad could see through it in a minute," sighed Susie, "but that poor dear will never have the chance, because, of course, we can't tell even him. And he likes this sort of thing, too; it would give him just the excitement he's been sighing for!"

And yet fate willed that he was to have the chance, for half an hour later, after a short conference with Monsieur Pelletan, a gentleman whom we have met before in the apartment of Lord Vernon approached him where he sat in the smoking-room, drew up a chair, and sat down beside him.

"This is Mr. Rushford, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yes; that's my name," and the American looked him over in some surprise.

"My name is Collins," went on the other. "I am secretary to Lord Vernon."

"Glad to know you, Mr. Collins," and the American held out his hand. "I hope Lord Vernon's getting along all right."

"As well as could be expected, thank you; but there has been a little unforeseen—er—complication—"

"Nothing serious, I hope?"

"Well, yes; to be quite frank, Mr. Rushford, I think it decidedly serious."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Rushford, with genuine feeling. "We Americans have always taken a special pride in Lord Vernon's career—his mother was an American girl, you know—and his death would be almost a personal loss to us."

"His death?" echoed Collins, staring.

"There's no immediate danger, then? I'm glad of that. Still, if the complication is as serious as you think—"

"My dear sir," broke in the Englishman, "you have misunderstood me. Lord Vernon's health is—er—quite satisfactory, all things considered. The complication is in—er—a rather delicate affair of state, which—which—"

"Anything I can do?" asked Rushford, encouragingly, as the other stammered and broke down.

"Yes, there is, Mr. Rushford," answered Collins, quickly, taking his courage in both hands. "Or, rather, there's something your daughters can do."

"My daughters?" Rushford looked at him again, a growing suspicion in his eyes. "I don't quite understand. You'll have to be more explicit, Mr. Collins. I don't see how my daughters can have anything to do with your affairs of state."

"I am going to be as explicit as I can," Collins assured him, "but it's such an infernally delicate matter that one hardly knows where to begin. Of course, what I have to tell you must be told in confidence."

"All right," said the American, with a little pucker of the brow which told that he did not wholly like Mr. Collins. 'Fire ahead."

"First, if you don't mind," said the Englishman, looking about him, "I think we'd better get out of this crowd."

"Suppose we go up to my rooms," suggested Rushford, rising. "We'll be free from interruption there, and can thresh the whole thing out."

"Thank you," assented Collins. "Of course, I understand," he continued, in a louder voice, as they started toward the door, "that the question of stocks is always a very complicated one, and very difficult for a layman to understand, but a man of your experience—"

The door of the elevator-car closed behind them, and he stopped.

"Whose benefit was that for?" asked Rushford.

"For the benefit of a French police spy, who was trying his best to overhear our conversation."

"A police spy? Did you know him?"

"I know his class; it's impossible to mistake it. They all look alike—it's a type which even the comic opera has been unable to burlesque. You probably noticed him—all moustache, imperial, and lavender gloves."

"Oh, him? Yes, I've seen him. And I've been rather itching to apply my boot to his coat-tails. I thought he was a cheap actor—a ten, twenty, thirty, as we say in America. Do you suppose Pelletan knows him?"

"Oh, undoubtedly! He's probably boarding him for nothing. These French police have a way with them."

Rushford bit his moustache savagely and resolved to have an explanation with Monsieur Pelletan.

The car stopped.

"Here we are," he said, stepping out into the corridor. "You see our apartment is just over Lord Vernon's. I don't believe even a French detective can disturb us here," and he locked the door after them as they entered. "Besides, my daughters will be handy if we decide to call them in."

Yet, in spite of the plural pronoun, it was quite evident that he was the one who proposed to do the deciding.

"Thank you," said Collins, again. "I hope to show you the necessity of calling them in. In fact, the principal favour I want to ask of you is an introduction to them. They can, if they will, save Lord Vernon, and incidentally the government, a lot of trouble."

Rushford looked at him with a little stare.

"In what way?" he asked, motioning him to a chair.

"It happens," answered Collins, "that, by chance, they hold in their hands the key to a very important affair of state—nothing less than the succession to Schloshold-Markheim. They could, if they wished, involve the government in difficulties of the most serious nature."

Rushford stared at him yet a moment. Then he settled back in his chair.

"Have a cigar?" he asked. "No? You won't mind my smoking? I can think better when I smoke. Now let's have the story; I'm anxious to hear what those girls have been up to. I'm afraid they need a chaperon, after all!"



CHAPTER VIII

Pride has a fall

Shortly before six o'clock that evening, the door of Lord Vernon's apartment opened, and the Prince of Markeld appeared on the threshold, bowed out in the politest manner possible by Blake, Collins, and Sir John. He crossed the corridor, paused irresolutely at the stairhead, then went on toward his own rooms, his head bent, his face expressing the liveliest dissatisfaction: an expression which deepened to disgust when, on opening his door, he perceived Tellier awaiting him within.

"He would come in," explained Glueck, after a glance at his master's countenance. "He lied; he said Your Highness was expecting him. Shall I throw him out?"

"No," said the Prince, "not yet," and Glueck retired to a convenient distance, confident that his hour would yet arrive.

The detective, apparently, had no uneasiness concerning the result of the interview, for his face was beaming with self-importance and he greeted the Prince with a confidence born of certainty. His eyes asked the question which his lips were too well-governed and discreet to articulate.

"Tellier," began the Prince, abruptly, looking at him with a fiery glance, "you are either a knave or a fool—a fool, doubtless, since you seem too stupid to be a knave—and you very nearly made me appear another!"

The detective's face dropped suddenly from triumph to humility.

"I do not understand," he faltered. "Does Your Highness mean—"

"I mean that that story of yours was a ridiculous lie!" responded the Prince, brutally, being, indeed, greatly overwrought. "How do I know," he added, suddenly, "that you did not intentionally deceive me? I have only your word—what is that worth? How do I know that it was not a trick—a trick on the part of your government to involve me with England? That would be like you!" and his hands clenched and unclenched in a most threatening manner.

"I swear to Your Highness," protested Tellier, his cheeks livid, his lips quivering convulsively, "that I told only the truth! On my heart, I swear it—on my soul—on the grave of my mother. Otherwise, pardieu, would I have been so imprudent as to remain here awaiting the return of Your Highness?"

The Prince's face relaxed a little as he looked at him.

"No," he agreed, grimly, after a moment. "I don't believe you would. Yes, you are a fool and not a knave. For I have just seen Lord Vernon with my own eyes—he is truly ill—sneezing as though his head would burst, gasping for breath, his eyes running water, cursing even the friends who nurse him! It was some one else who kicked my dog away. You have been deceived."

Tellier was walking up and down the room, tugging at his imperial, at his hair, biting his nails, shaking his clenched hands at the ceiling in a very ecstasy of bewilderment.

"Impossible!" he murmured, hoarsely. "Impossible!"

"How impossible!" cried the Prince, violently. "Do you presume to contradict me? Do you dare to dispute my word when I tell you that I myself have seen Lord Vernon; when I describe his condition to you? He was most courteous, though he could not speak above a whisper—he treated me more kindly than I deserved, when one considers the wording of that note I sent to him, for which I was glad to apologise! One could see he was in no condition to give me audience—to discuss business of any kind! He could scarcely sit erect!"

"Oh, there is some knavery!" cried Tellier, his face purple. "I know it! I scent it!"

"You are, then, infallible, I suppose!" retorted the Prince. "His physician assured me that in a week Lord Vernon would be much better—nearly well; he suggested that for a week I do not press my business."

"But you did not agree!" screamed Tellier. "Your Highness did not agree!"

"Most certainly I agreed. Not to agree would have been to insult them yet a second time!"

"A week!" groaned Tellier, throwing up his hands, with a gesture of despair. "Then all is lost!"

"How lost?" demanded Markeld, red with anger. "In what way lost? Have a care of what you say!"

Tellier controlled himself by a mighty effort and managed to speak with some approach to calmness.

"The German Emperor will not waste a week, Your Highness. That is not his way, as you very well know. He will be at work every hour—every minute!"

"What can he accomplish, if the British foreign office will do nothing? Will he take the affair into his own hands? He will not dare!"

"He might dare, Your Highness; he has dared things more perilous than that. But how do we know the British foreign office will do nothing?"

"I tell you," repeated the Prince, hotly, "that Lord Vernon is a gentleman—something you do not seem to understand; that he is ill— something you seem to doubt!"

"In diplomacy, Your Highness, even a gentleman may sometimes lie, or, at least, disguise the truth. Perhaps even before this, he has hinted to the Emperor that he will not interfere, if he acts promptly—perhaps this illness is merely a ruse to avoid a situation the most awkward."

It was the Prince's turn to stride up and down, to pluck at his moustache, to go red and white.

"If I thought so!" he murmured hoarsely. "If I thought so!"

"There is some underhand work in progress," cried Tellier, growing more and more excited; "some trap, some piece of trickery—I know not what—but I am certain—I will find out!"

"If I thought so!" said the Prince again, and his face was not pleasant to look upon.

"For I repeat to Your Highness that I could not have been mistaken. It is impossible that I should have been mistaken. I saw Lord Vernon leap from his chair; I was as near it as I am to you at this moment; I saw him return to it and hide himself behind his paper, when he saw you approaching; I waited, and saw his lackeys come after him and lift him to the invalid chair. If I had not been certain before, I was certain then! I followed him back to the hotel. Yes!" he added, with sudden excitement, "and there was another circumstance which will confirm me!"

"Go on!" commanded Markeld, yielding somewhat before this torrent of proof.

"At the door he met the young ladies whom he had rescued—the Americans; they recognised him—I could see their look of astonishment at perceiving him in the chair of an invalid, buried in rugs. They stared after him—the chair stopped—he wrote a few words on a piece of paper and sent it back to them. They read it with eyes even more astonished."

"Did you, by any chance, read it also?" inquired the Prince, with a deceptive calmness.

"No, Your Highness," Tellier replied, simply, quite unconscious of his danger. "I saw no way of doing that, unfortunately. I thought of snatching it away, but that would have created a turmoil, which is always to be avoided if possible. But Your Highness might easily gain possession of the note—"

The Prince stopped him with a fierce gesture of repugnance.

"Do you know what it is that you have the effrontery to propose to me?" he demanded.

The Frenchman paused in mid-sentence and swallowed with difficulty, his face very red.

"I am certain," he said, after a moment, "that those young ladies know it was Lord Vernon who rescued them. They would no doubt confirm this, if Your Highness would inquire—"

The Prince strode to the door and flung it open.

"Do not come back till you can speak without insulting me," he said, sternly.

"One moment, Your Highness!" cried Tellier. "But a moment! I have another proof. Oh, you are wrong not to believe me! You are wrong to yield to your anger!"

"The proof!" broke in the Prince, sharply, realising, perhaps, the justice of the reproach. "The proof! What is it? Speak quickly!"

"It is this, Your Highness," answered the detective, striving desperately to steady his voice, to speak intelligibly. "But an hour ago, the secretary of Lord Vernon was in conference with the father of those young ladies. He approached him in the smoking-room; he introduced himself; he sat down; he began a conversation. I should have overheard everything, but that, unfortunately, he was more clever than I thought. He suspected me. They went together to Monsieur Rushford's apartment—I followed, I listened at the keyhole; but they went on into an inner room, and the outer door was locked, so I could not—"

The Prince, who had listened to all this with blazing eyes, suddenly raised his arm with a furious gesture.

"Glueck!" he shouted.

That faithful servitor appeared on the instant, his face alight with anticipation.

"But if there should be a plot!" protested Tellier, hesitating, even yet, on the threshold.

"If there is a plot," said the Prince, sternly, "someone shall suffer for it, depend upon that! But against gentlemen, the proof must be conclusive. Glueck, show him out," and he shut the door upon the unhappy spy.

"It would have been well," observed Glueck, calmly, coming back after a moment, "to have thrown him out in the first place."

"I agree with you," said his master. "You may do so whenever you find him here again, my friend," and for an instant Glueck almost smiled.

"Will Your Highness dine in your apartment tonight?" he asked.

The Prince hesitated; then his face relaxed as at some pleasant thought.

"No, Glueck," he said, "I will dine downstairs. Get my bath ready."



CHAPTER IX

Pelletan's Skeleton

As he left the dining-room that evening, Rushford crooked an imperious finger at Monsieur Pelletan.

"I want a word with you," he said in his ear.

"In private, monsieur?" asked the little Frenchman, with some trepidation.

"Yes, I think it would better be in private—that is, if you can accomplish it in this bedlam."

"Oh, I haf a place, monsieur, where no one will intrude," and Pelletan led the way through the hotel office to a little door back of the desk. "T'is iss my—vat you call eet in English?—my sty, my kennel—"

"Your den."

"Iss t'ere a difference?" asked Pelletan, fumbling with the lock.

"A sty is for pigs and a kennel for dogs," Rushford explained. "A den is for wild beasts. These niceties of the English language are not for you, Pelletan."

"Still," persisted Pelletan, "a man iss no more a wild beast t'an he iss a dog or a pig."

"Not nearly so much so, very often," agreed Rushford, heartily. "You have me there, Pelletan. Sty would undoubtedly be the right word in many cases."

"Fery well, t'en," said Pelletan, proudly, opening the door, "pehold my sty!" and he stood aside that his companion might enter.

It was a little square box of a room jammed with such a litter of bric-a-brac as is to be picked up only on the boulevards—trifles in Bohemian glass, a lizard stuffed with straw, carved fragments of jade and ivory, a Sevres vase bearing the portrait of Du Barry, an Indian chibook, a pink-cheeked Dresden shepherdess, a sabre of the time of Napoleon, a leering Hindoo idol, a hideous dragon in Japanese bronze grimacing furiously at a Barye lion—all of them huddled together without order or arrangement, as they would have been in an auction room or an antique shop. In one corner stood a low table of Italian mosaic, bearing a somewhat battered statuette of Saint Genevieve plying her distaff, and the walls were fairly covered with photographs— photographs, for the most part, of women more anxious to display their charms of person to an admiring world than to observe the rigour of convention.

Rushford dropped into one of the two chairs, got out a cigar, lighted it, and sat for some moments looking around at this wilderness of gimcracks.

"Pelletan, you're a humbug," he said at last. "You came to me yesterday and said your last franc was gone."

"Unt so it wass, monsieur."

"But this collection ought to be worth something."

"Monsieur means t'at it might pe sold?"

"Undoubtedly."

"But monsieur does not know—does not understand. Tis—all t'is—iss my life; eet iss here t'at I liff—not out t'ere," with a gesture of disgust toward the door. "I could no more liff wit'out t'is t'an wit'out my head!"

Rushford, looking at him curiously, saw that he was in deadly earnest.

"Really," he said, "you surprise me, Pelletan. I had never suspected in you such depth of soul."

"Besides, monsieur," added Pelletan, leaning forward, "t'ese t'ings are not all what t'ey seem—t'is dragon, par exemple, ees not off bronze, but off t'e plaster of Paris—yet I lofe eet none t'e less—more, perhaps, because off t'at fery fact."

"And these—ah—females," said Rushford, and waved his hand at the serried photographs, "I suppose even they are necessary to your existence."

"I lofe to look at t'em, monsieur," confessed Pelletan.

"Personal acquaintances, perhaps."

"Not all of t'em, monsieur; but t'ey haf about t'em t'e flavour off Paris—off t'at tear Paris off which I tream each night; t'ey recall t'e tays off my yout'!"

"Oh, are you a Parisian? I should never have suspected it. Your accent—"

"I am off Elsass, monsieur. It wass, perhaps, for t'at reason t'at Paris so won my heart."

"If I were as fond of the place as all that," observed Rushford, laughing, "I'd have stayed there."

"It proke my heart to leafe," murmured Pelletan. "T'at is why I lofe all t'is," and he motioned to the walls, and kissed his hand to a voluptuous siren with red hair. "T'at is Ernes tine. Tonight she will take her part at t'e Alcazar; at t'e toor a friend will meet her unt t'ey will go toget'er down t'e Champs-Elysees to t'e grand boulevard, where t'ey sit in front of Pousset's and trink t'eir wine unt eau sucree. T'ey will watch t'e crowds, t'ey will greet t'eir friends, t'ey will exchange t'e tay's news. T'en t'ey will go to tinner—six or eight of t'em toget'er—een a leetle room at Maxime's, where t'ey can make so much noise as pleases t'em—only I will not pe t'ere—in all t'at great city, nowhere will I pe! Unt I am missed, monsieur, no more t'an iss a grain of sand from t'e peach out yonder!"

His voice trembled and broke, and he ran his hands through his hair in a very agony of despair.

"There, there," said Rushford, soothingly, repressing an inclination to laugh at the grotesque figure before him. "Don't take it so much to heart. I dare say they drink your health oftener than you imagine."

"Do you really t'ink so, monsieur?" asked Pelletan, brightening.

"And, depend upon it, you'll get back to them some day," continued the American. "Only stay here a year or two until you've made your fortune, as you're certain to do now."

"Yess, monsieur," agreed Pelletan, huskily. "T'anks to you!"

"In the meantime," added Rushford, smiling, "keep the ladies, if you like to look at them. Your little foibles are no affair of mine. What I wanted to speak to you about was a matter of business. There's a blatant, detestable French spy in the house who has got to get out. He even had the impudence to ogle my girls at dinner this evening. Shall I kick him out, or will you attend to the matter?"

Pelletan had grown paler at every word until he was fairly livid.

"Iss eet Monsieur Tellier to whom monsieur refers?" he stammered.

"I don't know his name, but he looks like a freak from the wax-works. He's got to go—he's nearly as bad as Zeit-Zeit."

Pelletan mopped his shining forehead and groaned dismally.

"What is it, man?" demanded the American. "Don't tell me that this rascal has a hold on you!"

Pelletan groaned again, more dismally than before.

"I was told this afternoon," added Rushford, grimly, "that he was probably staying here at my expense."

"Eet iss not so!" cried Pelletan, his eyes flashing. "I pay for heem—efery tay I charge myself mit' twenty franc for hees account."

"But what on earth for?" demanded Rushford. "What have you done—robbed a bank or committed murder?"

Pelletan glanced around to assure himself that the door was tightly closed, then drew his chair nearer to his patron.

"I haf a wife," he said, slowly, in a sepulchral tone.

"Well, what of it? Is that a crime in France? I could almost believe it!"

"I could not liff mit' her no longer," continued Pelletan. "She wass a teufel! I leafe her!"

"Oh, that's it—so you ran away?"

"Yess, monsieur, I ran avay—avay from Paris—avay from France—I t'ought efen of going to Amerique."

"Was she so bad as all that?" asked Rushford, sympathetically.

For answer, Pelletan went to the statue of Saint Genevieve, lifted it, and took from beneath it a photograph.

"T'is iss she, monsieur," he said, and handed the photograph to Rushford.

The latter took one look at it and passed it back.

"Not guilty!" he said. "You have my profound sympathy, Pelletan. How did you happen to get caught? You must have been exceedingly young!"

"I wass, monsieur," admitted Pelletan, with a sigh. "I wass just from t'e province—my head wass full of treams. Unt she wass petter-looking, t'en, monsieur; she wass almost slim. She wass a widow—unt besides she had a leetle patisserie which her man had left her."

"I see—avarice was your undoing. And you caught a tartar!"

"A teufel!" repeated Pelletan. "A fiend! Oh, what an end to t'e tream! I worked—oh, how hard I worked—sweating at t'e ovens, efery hour of t'e twenty-four—for t'e ovens must not pe allowed to cool. She sat at t'e money-drawer unt grows fat; I wass soon so weak t'at she tid not hesitate to—to—"

The little man's face was bathed in sweat at the memory of that degradation, which his tongue refused to describe.

"I endured eet to t'e last moment," he added, thickly. "T'en I fled!"

"You seem to have alighted on your feet," remarked Rushford.

"We had made a success of t'e pusiness," Pelletan explained, "unt I brought mit me my share of t'e profits, which seemed only fair, since I, py my labour, had earned t'em. Unt t'en I took a lease of t'is place, unt did well until t'is year. T'at iss my whole history, monsieur. T'at iss why I dare not return to Paris, efen for a small visit in winter when pusiness here iss pad. Eef she so much as caught one leetle glimpse of me, she would murder me!" and he mopped his face again.

"Still," said the American, "I don't see where Tellier comes in."

Pelletan carefully replaced the photograph under the statuette and then reseated himself opposite his companion.

"Tellier knows her," he explained, simply.

"Met her professionally, perhaps," suggested Rushford. "Well, what of it?"

"Eef I offend heem, he gifes her my attress!" continued Pelletan, hoarsely, and his forehead glistened again at the thought. "He t'reatened as much when he arrife here unt I tol' him t'e house wass full."

"Hm!" commented Rushford. "I see. All right; I'll stand by you. I dare say I can stomach Tellier for a day or two."

Pelletan breathed a deep sigh of relief.

"Tat iss kind," he stammered; "I—I—"

"There, there," and the American waved him to silence. "And you needn't charge yourself with his keep. But I hope you haven't any more skeletons in the closet, my friend."

"Skeletons, monsieur?"

"Such as Madame Pelletan."

"Oh," said the Frenchman, naively, "Madame Pelletan iss quite t'e opposite off a skeleton, monsieur!"

* * * * *

Rushford paused at the hotel door and looked out along the Digue. It was thronged with people hurrying toward the Casino, eager for the night's excitement. But the American turned in the opposite direction, and sauntered slowly along, breathing in the cool breeze from the ocean. At last he paused, and, leaning against the balustrade, stood gazing out across the moonlit water, smiling to himself at thought of Pelletan's vicissitudes.

He was roused by the sound of voices on the beach below him. He looked down mechanically, but for a moment saw no one. Then, deep in the shadow of the wall, he descried two figures walking slowly side by side. One was a man and the other a woman. They were talking in a French so rapid and idiomatic that Rushford could distinguish no word of it, except that the man addressed his companion as Julie.

There was something strangely familiar about the figure of the man, and as Rushford stared down at him, his vision seemed suddenly too clear and he perceived that it was the French detective.

"Tellier prosecutes his loves," he murmured, smiling grimly to himself, and turned back toward the hotel. There he stopped, struck by a sudden thought. "Julie," he repeated. "Julie—where have I heard that name recently? Oh, I remember—Julie is our maid at the hotel. I wonder—"

He went back abruptly to the parapet and looked over, but Tellier and his companion had disappeared.



CHAPTER X

An Introduction and a Promenade

Warm and fair dawned the morning; and having, at its leisure, duly arisen, bathed and breakfasted, the unemployed population of Weet-sur-Mer, male and female, sallied forth to throng the beach and Digue, to inhale the fresh air, to shake off so far as possible the effects of the evening's dissipations, and to exchange such toadstool growths of gossip as had sprung up over night.

To join this parade there presently came Lord Vernon, reclining languidly in his invalid chair, and muffled in many rugs; but his eyes were eagerly alert and he gazed with evident anticipation down the long promenade of the Digue. He was attended by Blake, Collins, and Sir John, all of them determined, no doubt, to prevent a second contretemps. But Sir John presently descried a learned fellow-Aesculapian and stopped for a chat with him; while Blake soon afterward succumbed to the glance and smile of a red-cheeked English beauty. Collins, however, stuck grimly to his post, being above—or below—such human weaknesses.

"There they are!" cried Vernon, suddenly, with brightening eyes.

"Who?" asked Collins, following his gaze. "Oh, the Rush ford girls. I suppose it will be polite to show our gratitude. I think we owe them a vote of thinks, don't you?"

"I certainly do," agreed Vernon, straightening himself in his chair with a vigour which had nothing of the invalid about it. "Will you introduce me?"

"If I can snare them without being too intrusive," assented Collins, who, since the success of his stratagem of the afternoon before, had been in an unusually complaisant mood.

But fate willed that they should be snared without any effort on his part whatever, for just then a porter came by with a truck piled high with luggage, and it and the invalid chair combined to form an impasse from which there was no escaping. Not that either of the young ladies displayed any very evident anxiety to escape.

"Good-morning," said Collins, in his best manner. "My lord," he continued, turning to his companion, "these are the Misses Rushford, to whom we owe so much. I hope I may introduce Lord Vernon to you," he added.

Both of them were laughing as they took, in turn, the hand which Vernon rather eagerly held out.

"I'm awfully glad to meet you," he said, looking from one to the other and trying to decide which was the prettier. "I feel that we do owe you a great deal. When Collins came back yesterday afternoon and told me what he'd had the impudence to ask you, I was—I was—"

"Very wrathy, to put it mildly," said Collins. "But I took it meekly; it was in a good cause."

"And we didn't think it impudent at all," said Sue. "Since we had caused all the trouble, it was only fair that we should bear a part of it. Besides, it wasn't by any means so difficult as Mr. Collins thought it would be."

"You don't mean that Markeld actually asked you! I didn't believe he'd do that, despite Collins's prophecy. He seemed to have too much of high politeness about him."

"I was sure he would," put in Collins, triumphantly. "He couldn't afford to neglect such an obvious way of making certain, and he's much too clever to have overlooked it."

"You were quite right, Lord Vernon," said Susie, very quietly, though there was a dangerous sparkle in her eyes. "The Prince did not ask us—but a French creature did—a detective—"

"One of his emissaries," suggested Collins. "I know him—his name is Tellier."

"I have no reason to think him an emissary," retorted Susie, curtly, beginning to dislike the secretary. "I don't in the least believe the Prince would choose such a one. Dad pointed him out to us in the dining-room last night—a thing of mustachios and eyes—just the kind one sees at the vaudeville, but which I hadn't the least idea existed in real life.—Oh!" she cried, with a little start, "there he is now, almost near enough to hear!"

Collins swore softly between his teeth, for there, indeed, Monsieur Tellier was, leaning with elaborate negligence against the balustrade, apparently intent upon the crowd below. His countenance was quite inscrutable—calm as a summer day—which might mean much or nothing, for he had an immense pride in keeping it always so. Vernon took him in with a quick glance.

"I recognise the type," he said. "Can't we go on, Miss Rushford? Collins might form a rear guard. And James is blind, deaf, and dumb toward everything that doesn't concern him," he added, as she glanced at the stalwart footman behind the chair. "I'm very anxious to hear the story. But, of course, if it's asking too much—"

"It isn't," answered Susie, promptly, and fell in beside the chair, while Collins and her sister followed at a distance of a few paces. "Now, I think, we can talk without fear of being overheard by Monsieur Tellier. But there is really very little to tell. He sent up his card just before dinner yesterday evening; we sent it back. Then, being persistent and not easily snubbed, he sent up a note which asked 'Are the Misses Rushford acquainted with the gentleman who came to their assistance this afternoon?' To which the Misses Rushford added a line, 'They are not,' and sent it back to him. It was too absurd. It reminded me of the agony column in the Herald."

"The agony column?"

"Yes—'Will the lady dressed in blue, who took a Broadway car yesterday,'—and so on."

"Oh," said Vernon, with a smile. "Yes—we have the same thing in England."

"And, after all," continued Susie, "our reply was the exact and literal truth—of a kind which, I should imagine, is well known to diplomats."

The occupant of the chair had quite made up his mind that Susie was the prettier.

"It is their favourite kind," he assured her; "nothing delights them more than to lie while telling the truth."

"Them? But aren't you a diplomat?"

"There are many who doubt it. Perhaps they will doubt it more than ever before we are out of this tangle. It's awfully good of you and your sister to take an interest in it."

"But of course we'd take an interest!"

"And keep a secret."

"Ah—well, perhaps that is a little unusual."

"Especially after my rudeness," he added.

"Your rudeness?"

"In running away and hiding behind my paper. What did you think of me?"

"We didn't know what to think," admitted Susie, candidly; "though, of course, afterwards we were able to guess."

"And I am pardoned?"

"Oh, quite; you had to escape, you know. It's a perfectly delightful muddle, isn't it? Dad understood it at once."

"Did he?" The occupant of the chair moved a little uneasily.

"Yes—we talked it over, you know, after Mr. Collins left. But then dad is up on politics and we are not. Only it's a little rough on the Prince of Markeld, don't you think?"

"Yes, it is rough on him, but—well, it would be rougher to turn him down—rougher on all concerned!"

"You'd have to turn him down? But there; I mustn't meddle with affairs of state!"

"Sentiment hasn't much show in the foreign office," said Vernon, with some bitterness; "not even the sentiment of friendship. We're trying to find the easiest way out."

Susie nodded, her eyes sparkling. This was a new and delicious experience, this weighing the fate of nations, as it were. She even skipped a little, unconscious of Lord Vernon's eyes upon her glowing face.

"Of course," she agreed, judicially, "I suppose one must always try to find the easiest way out. Only dad seemed to think—"

She hesitated.

"Go ahead," he encouraged her. "I don't doubt that your father was entirely right."

"Well, then, dad seemed to think that Prince Ferdinand is much the better of the two men."

"There is no question of that," assented Lord Vernon, gloomily. "But let me put a case, Miss Rushford. Suppose your best friend were set upon by thieves and just as you started to help him, another thief came up behind you and, putting a pistol to your head, commanded you to stand still. What would you do?"

"I'd stand still," laughed Sue.

"Yes; but your friend can't see the thief behind you, and when he sees you standing there, not offering to help him, he thinks you are a coward and a traitor. Perhaps he tells you so in the most emphatic language at his command."

"It would be a very difficult position," agreed Sue, still laughing at the picture presented by the words. "On second thought, I don't believe I'd stand still for long; I'd try to give my thief a knock-out blow and then go help my friend."

"But you would have to wait till your thief was off his guard. Well, that is pretty much the position that England is in, as I understand it. Prince Ferdinand is our friend, but we've got to wait till the man with the pistol makes a false move. We're doing the best we can—and in the meantime, Prince Ferdinand's misguided friends are calling us hard names."

"But," inquired Susie, "who is the man with the pistol? He must be a pretty big fellow to be able to hold you prisoner, and yet I must confess that I'm like Prince Ferdinand—I can't perceive him, either."

Lord Vernon hesitated a moment.

"I'm afraid, Miss Rushford," he said, slowly, at last, "that I can't tell you, just yet. I'd like to, but if I did, I'd have all these diplomatic sharps down on me in short order. I thought maybe you could guess."

"Oh, don't apologise!" cried Susie. "I hadn't any right to ask. Though," she added, regretfully, "I'm not at all good at guessing."

Lord Vernon smiled as he looked at her.

"I don't think we'll have any more trouble," he said. "Markeld and I have called a truce for a week, and by that time—"

He paused again, evidently on the verge of another indiscretion. Chance saved him the necessity of going on, for at that moment a tall, military figure loomed ahead, approached, hesitated, stopped, and uncovered.

"I hope I see you better this morning, Lord Vernon," said a pleasant voice.

"Why, yes, thank you, Your Highness," answered Vernon, colouring a little. "I feel much better. Let me introduce to you Miss Rushford," he added, catching the other's admiring glance and interpreting it aright. "Miss Rushford, this is the Prince of Markeld."



CHAPTER XI

The Prince Gains an Ally

So it presently came to pass that Susie Rushford found herself walking on with the Prince of Markeld, while Nell took her place beside the invalid's chair. Five minutes later, Vernon had revised his judgment and decided that Nell was far the handsomer—she had the air, somehow, which one associates with duchesses, but which, alas! is, in reality, so seldom theirs. She was just a little regal, just a little awe-inspiring, so that to win a smile impressed one as, in a way, an achievement. Vernon had won several before they had been long together, and felt his heart growing strangely, deliciously warm within him.

As to Sue—if we may pause to analyse her feelings—she, too, had been for the first moment impressed. The Prince was so visibly a Highness; every line of him expressed it, not consciously, but inevitably, from the blood out. So, after a glance or two, she walked along beside him rather humbly and very silent, not in the least as the proverbial American girl should have done! Then she stole another glance at him and saw that he was twisting his moustache in evident perplexity.

"You may have perceived," he said, at last, with that slight formality of utterance which Sue thought very taking, "that I was most desirous of meeting you, Miss Rushford."

"I believe I did discern a sort of royal command in your eye," assented Susie, feeling suddenly at ease with him. He was evidently a mere man, even though he were a prince.

"Yes," he continued, "I felt that I owed you and your sister a more complete apology than it was possible for me to make yesterday without impertinence. You see I am unaccompanied to-day."

"Poor Jax!" laughed Susie.

"I suspect," the Prince continued, "that I somehow offended you when I offered you the dog."

"Oh, you perceived it, did you?" and she flashed an ironic glance upon him.

"Yes—though I could not in the least guess in what the offence consisted."

"My dear sir," said Sue, tartly, "American girls are not in the habit of accepting gifts from utter strangers."

"Not even from—from—"

He stopped, at a loss for a word which would express his meaning without absurdity.

"No, not even from Royal Highnesses," she added, interpreting his thought. "Besides, you know, in America we haven't any."

The Prince walked on in silence for a moment, his brow knit in meditation.

"Your last sentence explains it," he said, at last. "You have in America no class whose prerogative it is to bestow gifts, and, in consequence, you do not accept them as a matter of course. With us a gift is a conventional thing, like shaking hands."

"I wasn't trying to explain it," said Susie, with a little sigh of despair, "or to defend it—but let it go." Then, with a flash of mischief,—"Are you frequently called upon?"

"There are occasions almost every day which demand them of us," answered the Prince, soberly, missing the glance.

"Poor man! And the affair of yesterday was one of them? Forgive me if I am rude; but it is all so new and interesting!"

"It seemed only right," explained the Prince, "that I should compensate you in some way for the annoyance I had caused you."

The words were said so candidly and simply that the ironical smile faded from Susie's lips and she was silent for a moment.

"I think the American way the nicer," she said at last, decisively. "An American would have considered an apology ample reparation. With us a gift means something—it has a sentimental value. Besides, girls are never permitted to accept gifts of value. Flowers are the only things which may be given them."

"Flowers!" repeated the Prince, eagerly, looking at her.

"And only by their nearest, dearest friends," added Susie, hastily.

"Well, it is a very different point of view," said the Prince, the light fading from his face. "I have even heard that in America there are workmen who consider a tip an insult."

"It's unthinkable, isn't it? And yet, I'm proud to say, it's true. I may add that many Americans feel humiliated when they offer a tip to a man—it's like branding him with a badge of servility."

"I must confess," said the Prince, "that such an attitude seems to me absurd. What other badge than that of servility shall the servant wear?"

"He need wear no badge, if he does his work honestly and well," retorted Susie, hotly. "There is nothing disgraceful in service."

"No," agreed the Prince, with some hesitation, "perhaps not; nor, for that matter, is there anything disgraceful in a badge. But I have not said what I wished to say, which was that I hope you believe my offence was wholly unintentional and that you pardon me."

"I am not vindictive," answered Sue, smiling at his earnest tone, "and therefore you are pardoned. But it seems unjust that Jax should suffer imprisonment."

"Oh, he will get his outing, but with Glueck, who is less absent-minded. Yesterday, I had much to occupy me."

"And to-day?"

"Not so much. I am resting on my oars."

"Yes," said Susie, and contented herself with the monosyllable. She was keenly on the alert; determined not to betray Lord Vernon's confidence, yet, at the same time, desirous of helping, in some way, her companion. She distinctly approved of him. Then, too, she had somehow got the impression that the other side was not playing fairly, and her whole American spirit revolted against unfairness.

"I should like to tell you about it," he began, with a sudden burst of confidence. "But perhaps you know?"

"I know some of it. I can guess that it means a great deal to you."

"It does—more than you can guess; I think. Not so much to me, personally, as to our people. I believe that I am speaking only the exact truth when I say that it will be much better for the people of Schloshold-Markheim if our branch of the house is recognised and not the other. Our branch has been, in a way, for many years, progressive; the other is and always has been—well—conservative."

He had the air of searching for a word that would not go beyond the truth; Susie, glancing at him, decided that he had chosen one which fell far short of it.

"We have a certain claim of kinship and friendship upon England," he added, "and we are very anxious to enlist her aid, even though we lose this time; for there may soon be another vacancy. The head of the other branch has no heir and is not well."

He might have added that the August Prince George, of Schloshold, was hovering on the verge of dissolution as the result of forty years' corruption—a corruption of which not all the waters of the Empire could cleanse him; but there are some things which are better left unsaid.

"Who is it that is opposed to you in all this?" asked Sue.

"The German Emperor," said the Prince, simply. "He is not always in sympathy with—ah—progress."

"So he is the man with the pistol!" said Susie, thoughtfully.

"The—I beg your pardon," and the Prince looked at her in some surprise.

"It is nothing," said Susie, hastily, colouring under his eyes. "I was merely thinking aloud—thinking of a story. Pardon me. Will you tell me some more?"

"There is not much more to tell. Only, we fear that if we are not given an opportunity to present our claims this time, we may be forgotten the next. Prince George might possibly try to name a successor—we have even understood that he already considers doing so—that this, indeed, is the price he has agreed to pay the Emperor for his support—though this, of course, is strictly entre nous. You see I am trusting you."

"Thank you," answered Susie, simply; but there was that in her voice and glance which told how she would deserve the confidence. And, on the instant, a great yearning leaped warm into her heart. If she could help this people to the ruler they needed most; if she could somehow turn the scale, so delicately balanced! There would be a task worth doing; an achievement to be proud of all her life! And she trembled a little at the thought that to her, Susie Rushford, fate had given such an opportunity!

But Markeld, apparently, had had enough of high politics, or perhaps he found it difficult to keep his mind on them with Susie's dark eyes looking up at him. He was no novice in womankind; he had known many, high and low; but there was in his companion something different, something appealing, something fresh, invigorating, which he had felt from the first, in a vague way, without quite understanding. Princes may be outspoken when they please, and he was so at this moment.

"I was glad of to-day's meeting not only that I might apologise," he said, with a calmness which rather took his companion's breath away, "but because you interested me. I have heard much of American women, but all that I have heretofore been privileged to meet seemed to me to resent being called Americans. You and your sister, on the other hand, appear to be rather proud of it."

"I don't know whether that is intended as a compliment or the reverse," said Susie, "but it is undoubtedly true."

"It was that which interested me," he went on. "It indicated such an unspoiled point of view—a freshness which I fear the Old World is losing."

"Thank you," retorted Susie, gasping a little. "You have honoured us, I see, with a very careful study. I can respond by saying that there is in your manner a certain freshness which I do not like," and she shot him a fiery glance. At the moment, he was rather too evidently the Prince.

"I am sorry you find me displeasing," he said, looking at her gravely. Perhaps she was, at the moment, just the merest shade too evidently the American girl. "I hope the impression is one which will change when you know me better."

"Am I to have that pleasure?"

"I intend to ask your father if I may call upon you."

Susie gasped again. She felt that she was being swept beyond her depth by a current which she was powerless to resist; that she was beating with bare hands against a wall of incredible height and thickness—the wall of Old World convention, of class imperturbability. And she felt a little frightened, for almost the first time in her life.

"Do," she said faintly, realising that her companion was waiting for her to speak.

"I think that I shall like him," he added.

"Oh, do you know him?"

"'I was looking at him last night at dinner," he explained, calmly. "He seems a very interesting man. I looked at all of you a great deal—more than was perhaps quite polite. I feared you had perceived it."

"No," murmured Susie, desperately, telling a white lie.

"Tellier told me you were Americans—but I should have known it anyway."

"Tellier!" she repeated, turning upon him fiercely, welcoming the opportunity to create a diversion. "Then he was your emissary! And to think that I defended you!"

"My emissary?" he stammered. "Defended me?"

"Yes, when—when—some one said you had sent him to us—"

"Sent him to you!" he cried, flushing darkly. "Do you mean to say that he has been annoying you?"

"It was almost that."

"Ah!" he said. "Ah!" and he grasped his stick in a way that boded ill for Monsieur Tellier.

Susie, glancing up at him, thought it very fine. He was such a volcano, and there was such a fearful pleasure in stirring him up—in skipping over the thin crust with a lively consciousness of the boiling lava beneath!

"Then you didn't send him?" she inquired, sweetly.

"Send him! Miss Rushford, do you think for a moment that I would be so rude, so impertinent? Tell me you do not think so!"

"I didn't think so," said Sue, biting her lip, a little fearfully. "I even defended you, as I have said. But now—"

"But now—"

His eyes seemed to burn her; she dared not look up and meet them. She even regretted that she had begun to play with fire.

"But now," he repeated, insistently, imperatively.

"No, I don't think so now," she said, with a little catch of the breath. Then she glanced up at him, and instantly looked away. He should not act so; every one would notice; it was very embarrassing!

"That is kind of you," he said, in a low voice.

"Though," she added, reprovingly, glad to find a joint in his armour, "I am surprised that you should discuss me in any way whatever with that creature!"

"You are right!" he agreed, flushing hotly. "You are quite right. But the temptation was very great, and I wanted to know so badly. I beg you to believe that I regretted it an instant later. I do not want that you should think of me as like that!"

"Perhaps I would better not think of you at all," ventured Sue. Ah, what a fascination there is in fire!

"That would be still more unbearable!" he protested; his eyes were very bright and he was bending down a little that he might the better see the face under the broad hat.

"The view from here, I think, is very beautiful," she remarked, incoherently.

"No doubt," agreed the Prince, but he didn't take the trouble to look at it.

"He's a survival of the dark ages," said Susie to herself, "when they just snatched up girls and ran off with them!" Then aloud, "Have you ever been here before?"

"Never before."

"Do you like it?"

"Oh, very much!" His eyes would have told her why; but she could guess without looking.

"I suppose you usually go to one of the larger places?"

"It is one of the traditions of our family that at least a month must be spent at Ostend."

"What a shame that the tradition should be broken!"

"On the contrary, I bless the circumstance that shattered it. Do you know, Miss Rushford, I have never before realised what a tremendously lucky fellow I am? I must pour a libation to the god of chance!"

"It's a goddess, isn't it?" she asked, and regretted the question the next instant.

"You are right," he agreed, his eyes blazing. "A goddess! You have found the word. A goddess! And such a goddess!"

Fortunately, they had reached the end of the promenade, and as they paused at the balustrade, Nell and Lord Vernon joined them, saving Susie from a situation which had slipped entirely beyond her control.

Evidently Nell, too, had been having her difficulties, for she telegraphed her sister a desire to change places. So, on the homeward journey, despite the very apparent unwillingness of the men, Sue walked beside the invalid chair and Nell accompanied the Prince; and while both seemed gay enough—even unnaturally gay, perhaps—I dare say they found that the situation had lost a certain interest; for every danger has its fascination, every hazard its piquancy.

"I am not sure," observed Susie, reflectively, as they went up the stair together, "that I approve of princes. They are too self-assured; they carry things with too high a hand. They are evidently too much accustomed to having their own way."

"It seems to be a characteristic of lords, also," said Nell, with a little sigh.

"What they need is a vigorous calling down. Well, that ought not to be so difficult!" and the dark eyes snapped ominously.

"Though, perhaps, it's hardly worth the trouble," suggested Nell.

"Perhaps not," assented her sister; but half an hour later she waylaid her father to give him her commands. "Dad," she said, "if the Prince of Markeld asks you for permission to call, you'll tell him he may. It's just one of these odious Old World customs."

"So I judged," smiled her father. "He seems a nice fellow, and so when he asked me ten minutes ago, I told him we'd be glad to see him."

"Did—did he mention any particular time?" faltered Sue.

"Why, yes, now I think of it, I believe he said something about this evening."

"Oh!" gasped Susie, and then closed her lips tightly together. "Well," she said to herself, as she turned away, "he hasn't lost any time, to be sure! I'm afraid he's worse than I thought!"



CHAPTER XII

Events of the Night

Life at Weet-sur-Mer, as at most other places of its class, swung in a round prescribed by custom, as fixed and predestined as the courses of the stars. In the late morning occurred the promenade, taken as a brisk constitutional by a few, but by the great majority as a languid stroll designed to create an appetite for luncheon. That meal was followed by a period of torpor, then every one sought the beach—the high, the low; the rich, the poor; the dowdy and the well-dressed; the virgin in white and the cocotte in scarlet; the thin and the obese; the French, the Dutch, the Italian—yea, and the angular English, for Weet-sur-Mer attracted a crowd as hybrid as its name! There they amused themselves each after his own fashion, with dignity or abandon, as the case might be. They could not be said to mingle in the way that an American crowd would have done under like circumstances—the elements of society in an aristocratic country are as incapable of mingling as oil and water. The oil floated placidly on top, while the water disported itself contentedly beneath.

The oil, to preserve the simile, consisted, in the first place, of a number of self-important individuals stalking solemnly up and down, seemingly unconscious of the fact that they were not as solitary as Crusoe; and, in the second place, of certain solid, cohesive groups, presenting to the world a front as impenetrable and threatening as any Austrian phalanx, and guarding in their midst two or three young girls who must, at any hazard, be kept unspotted from the world. Strange to say, the girls appeared contented, even happy; the position seemed to them, no doubt, the normal one for them to occupy—and they could, of course, look forward with certainty to the opening of the prison door when a marriage should be arranged for them. They order this matter better in Europe; or, at least, differently, for there, as a discerning observer has pointed out, marriage means always that a woman is taken down from the shelf, while with us, alas, too often! that she is placed upon it, never to be removed!

To this class, too, belonged certain obese women and emaciated men sitting, in couples, under the gay sunshades with which the beach was bright. The women were dressed always in gowns which, however ornate, were not quite new, not quite fresh, not quite clean; and the black coats of the men were a little shiny at the elbow, a little faded at the seams. But madame still took care to preserve such figure as unkind fate had left her; and monsieur still kept his moustaches waxed to a needle's point; and they sat there together, quite immovable, for hours at a time, staring drearily out toward the horizon, meditating, no doubt, over past glories, or arranging some coup by which their fortunes might be retrieved. Pride will slip from them gradually, as the years pass; madame will abandon her figure and monsieur his moustaches, and they will end their days miserably in some second- or third-rate pension—even, perhaps, the Maison Vauquer!

The water was more interesting, being at once more natural and lively. With it there was no question of maintaining the equilibrium of its position; there was no need of air or artifice; there was none of that heartburning with which the latest Pontifical Princess smilingly swallows the insolence of the descendant (a la main gauche) of the Great Henri, happy to have been noticed, even though to be noticed meant inevitably to be snubbed. There was a freedom about the water, an honest vulgarity, a quality as of Rabelais, refreshingly in contrast with the hot-house manners and morals of the haute noblesse. Madame need not hesitate to cross her legs, if she found that attitude comfortable; monsieur could at once remove coat, waist-coat, collar, cuffs, if he found the weather warm.

Families whose size testified to their bourgeois respectability, lolled in happy promiscuity upon the sands; the children constructed forts or canals, the women tore some neighbour's reputation to pieces, the men lay back lazily and smoked and kept an eye out for the bathers.

There were always many scores of them, belonging principally to that strange and tragic half-world which hangs suspended, like Mahomet's coffin, between earth and heaven, or, at least, between mass and class, and which stretches out its tentacles and sucks nourishment from both. These with a regularity almost religious, spent an hour of every day, weather permitting, splashing in the gentle surf or posing on the beach in costumes more or less revealing, according to the contour of the wearer. The climax of the afternoon, the coup-de-theatre which all awaited, was the appearance of Mlle. Paul, late of the Varietes. This was such a masterpiece in its way that it is worth pausing a moment to describe.

Suddenly the door of her bathing-machine, which has been drawn just to the water's edge, is flung open, and she appears on the threshold, wrapped in a white sheet with a red border, producing a toga-like effect not ungraceful. She hesitates an instant, and casts a startled glance over the crowd of onlookers, then trips modestly down the steps. With a little frisson, she casts the sheet from her and stands revealed—well, perhaps not quite as Eve was to Adam, but so nearly so that the difference is scarcely worth remarking. She glances down at her shapely legs and then again at the entranced spectators.

"C'est convenable, j'espere hein?" she murmurs, and her bald-headed cicisbeo, who has taken possession of her sheet, hastens to assure her that all is well.

Whereupon, her doubts thus happily set at rest, she wades out to the diving-board, mounts it leisurely, stands poised for an instant at the outermost end, and then dives gracefully into the expectant billows. This she does at intervals for perhaps an hour, the supreme instant for the onlookers being that in which her glowing body, shimmering white through its single clinging garment, is outlined in mid-air against the sky. But finally Mademoiselle grows weary and returns to her machine, where the gallant and attentive gentleman previously referred to patiently awaits her—deus ex machina in more senses than one! The other bathers gradually disappear and the crowd melts imperceptibly away. The show is over.

But though all this was no doubt sufficiently diverting, Weet-sur-Mer was never gloriously, aggressively awake until the sun went down. The diversions of the day depended wholly upon the weather—a dash of rain, a wind from the north, and, pouf! they were not thought of.

Not so the festivities of the night. Nothing short of an earthquake could interfere with them. It was for the night that most of the sojourners at Weet-sur-Mer existed; it was for them, in turn, that the place itself existed! With these worthies, the first serious business of the day was dressing for dinner. As darkness came, a stir of life thrilled through the place from end to end. Rows and clusters of electric lights, many-sized and many-coloured, flashed out at the Casino, in the hotels, along the Digue. Women donned their evening gowns, thankful for handsome shoulders; got out their diamonds, real and paste, their rouge, cosmetics, what not; prepared to go forth and conquer, to play the old, old game which, by the calm light of the morning, seems so flat and savourless! Oh, what would it be without wine and lights and jewels and soft gowns, without warmth and music and perfume, without the suggestive, sensual darkness closing it in!

At the Casino presently spins the wheel of fortune—named in very mockery!—and it is there that one may gaze unrebuked into the most alluring eyes, may see the reddest lips and whitest shoulders;—creme de la creme of all in that smaller room upstairs, arranged for those whose jaded appetites demand some extra tickling; where no wager may be laid for less than a hundred francs, and for as much more as you please, monsieur, madame, provided only that you have it with you! Too bad that the immortal soul has no longer a money value, or how many would ornament that crowded table in the course of an evening's play!

But there; let a single glimpse of this tawdry, perfumed, fevered hell suffice us, even as it did Archibald Rushford on the first night of his stay at Weet-sur-Mer, and let us go out, as he did, into the pure night, and stand uncovered under the bright stars until the cool breeze from the ocean has washed us clean again, and turning our backs forever upon the Casino and its habitues, retrace our steps along the Digue to the Grand Hotel Royal.

In apartment A de luxe, a man with flushed face and rumpled hair was stamping nervously up and down. It required a second glance to recognise in him that usually well-groomed and self-possessed individual known as Lord Vernon. Two others were watching his movements with scarcely concealed anxiety—Collins leaning against the window with folded arms, Blake seated at a table with an open despatch-box before him.

"Hang it all, fellows," he was saying, "don't you see what a pickle it puts me in? I was a fool to fall in with the idea—I was actually silly enough to think it would be fun!"

"Of course," put in Collins, in his smoothest tone, "nobody could foresee the presence of this American Diana."

Vernon shot him a quick glance.

"Be mighty careful what you say, my friend," he warned him, "or I'll chuck the whole thing."

"Oh, you can't do that!" protested Blake. "You've got to carry it through! You can't back out now!"

"Can't I?" said Vernon, with a grim little laugh. "Don't be too certain! Suppose she finds it out? Pretty figure I'll cut, won't I?"

"But how can she find it out? In four or five days, you can tell her the whole story—you'll figure as a sort of hero of romance—"

"Yes—penny-dreadful romance—backstairs romance. The more I think of it, the less I like it. Diplomacy or no diplomacy, we're playing Markeld a dirty trick—that's the only expression that describes it. He's a nice fellow and we ought to treat him fairly."

Collins shrugged his shoulders as he turned away to the window and lighted a cigarette.

"You said something of the same sort yesterday, I believe," he remarked, negligently.

"Yes—and I meant it then" as I mean it now. Markeld has the right to expect decent treatment at our hands."

"Rather late in the day to take that ground," retorted Collins.

"Late or not, I do take it," answered Vernon, pausing an instant in his walk to emphasise the words.

"I see," said Collins, drily, "it's a sort of moral awakening—a quickening of conscience—the kind of thing we are all so proud of displaying. Pity it didn't come before we started for this place."

Vernon did not reply, only clasped and unclasped his hands nervously.

Collins wheeled around upon him abruptly, his face very stern.

"Come," he demanded, "let's have it out, once for all. I'm sick of this shilly-shally. Why can't you let Markeld take care of himself?"

"Because you're not playing fairly."

"What do you mean by fairly?"

"I mean openly, honestly—as gentlemen should."

"You forget that this is diplomacy—and that we don't live in the Golden Age. We fight with such weapons as come to hand. It's the game."

"Yes—as you understand it. A gang of cutthroats might say the same thing."

Collins flushed a little, but managed to keep his temper.

"I understand it as all diplomats understand it. I take no advantage that every diplomat would not take."

"Then God save me from diplomats!" retorted Vernon.

Collins flushed again, more deeply, and his eyes flashed with sudden fire.

"Your words verge upon the insulting," he said, after a moment. "I warn you not to try my patience too far. Perhaps, after this, you will see fit to choose other company—company more in accord with your really absurd ideals. But I would remind you of one thing—your career depends upon this affair. If it succeeds, you succeed. If it fails through any fault of yours, you are ruined. I assure you the fault will not be overlooked nor extenuated. You will pay for it!"

Vernon looked at him without answering, but his glance was full of meaning. Then he turned and left the room.

For a moment his companions stared after him—they had read his glance aright.

"We'll have to look sharp," said Collins, at last, "or he'll cause us trouble—he's ripe for it, confound him! We'd better wire the home office to hurry things up."

"Yes," agreed Blake, "there's no reasoning with a man in love."

"Nor frightening him," added Collins. "I'm afraid I made a mistake taking that tack. I'll go down and get off a message."

As he opened the door, he fancied that a figure melted into the shadow at the end of the hall. But his attention was distracted from it, for an instant later, he heard a step on the stair, and the Prince of Markeld mounted from the floor below, passed him with the slightest possible inclination of the head, and continued upward. Collins, staring after him, standing still as death, heard him enter the apartment of the Rushfords.

He remained a moment where he was, his heart heavy with foreboding, then he descended slowly to the office, his head bent, deep in thought. So preoccupied was he that he did not see the sleek face which leered at him from the shadow into which the dim figure had vanished.

The spy listened a moment intently; then, with a tread soft as a cat's, mounted the stair to the floor above.

* * * * *

"Of course, dad," Susie had said, in the early evening, "you will have to stay at home to-night since the Prince is coming to see you."

"Oh, it's not I he's coming to see," rejoined Rushford, easily. "In fact, he'll probably be tickled to death to find me out.''

"He's not going to find you out," retorted Susie, firmly. "You're going to stay right here."

"Nonsense, my dear! Why, when I was courting your mother—"

"What has that to do with it?" demanded Sue, very crimson. "Do you mean to say that someone is courting someone around here?"

"Of course, every man may be mistaken at times."

"Well, take my word for it, you're badly mistaken this time."

"Oh!" said her father, with assumed astonishment. "Am I? Then what is all this about?"

"And even if they were," continued Susie, a little unsteadily, "they do it differently from the American way."

"How do they do it, for heaven's sake?"

"Why, dad, how should I know?"

"You seem to have considerable information on the subject."

"I have enough information to know," retorted Sue, with some heat, "that in Europe, a young man calls upon the head of the family, and not upon any of its younger female members."

"I have always understood that Europe was behind the times," observed her father, "but I never suspected it was as bad as that. However, I take your word for it—I always do, you know. I suppose you and Nell will have to stay in your rooms."

"Oh, no," said Sue, "we may be present, so long as our chaperon is there."

"So I'm to do some chaperoning at last, am I?" queried her father. "The job has ceased to be a sinecure. I suppose I'll have to do all the talking, since young girls, of course, may only speak when spoken to and then must answer with a yes or no. Really, my dear, you're setting yourself an exceedingly difficult part!"

"Where did you learn so much about it, dad?"

"I'm reasoning by deduction—all this follows from what you've already told me. Well, I'll do my best to entertain this Dutchman. What does he talk about? Wiener-wurst and sauerkraut?"

"Oh, no," said Susie, with a reminiscent smile and a heightened colour; "he talks about things much more interesting than those."

And, indeed, the first moments past, Rushford found the Prince an entertaining fellow, with a fund of anecdote and experience decidedly unusual. But conversations of this sort are rarely worth recording; the less so in this instance, since the Prince had taken care to seat himself where he had a good view of the enchanting Susie, and that vision more than once caused his thoughts to wander. Still, they discussed America and Europe, art, nature, the universe—none of which has anything to do with this story—everything, in short, except the warm, palpitating human heart, with which we are principally concerned—and it was very late before the Prince finally arose to go.

Sue whispered her thanks as she kissed her father good-night.

"Good old daddy!" she said, and patted him on the cheek. "And it wasn't such a trial, after all, was it?"

Her father looked down at her quizzically.

"No, my dear," he answered. "In fact, I rather enjoyed it. I fancy he'd be a mighty interesting talker if there weren't any distractions around. Not that I blame him," he added, hastily. "I was that way myself once upon a time," and he bent and kissed her tenderly again.

Susie, before her glass, stared at herself long and earnestly, then took down her hair and proceeded to arrange it in various ways. At last, she got out a diamond bracelet, placed it tiara-wise upon her head, and studied the effect. She was thus engaged when an agitated tap at the door gave her a mighty start, and she had just time to snatch off the decoration when Nell burst in, her face white with emotion.

"Why, what is it, Nellie?" cried her sister, springing up.

"I—I've lost it!" gasped Nell, sinking limply into a chair, and trembling convulsively. "I'm sure—it's been stolen!"

"Lost it!" echoed Sue, reviewing in one quick mental flash Nell's most valuable possessions. "Not the diamond necklace!"

"Oh, Sue!" wailed Nell. "How can you be so mercenary? Oh, I wish it was the necklace! But it isn't! It's the note!"

It was Sue's turn to gasp, to turn pale, to sink into a chair.

"The note!" she echoed, hoarsely. "Not Lord Vernon's!"

Nell nodded mutely, her face a study for the Tragic Muse.

"But I thought you destroyed it," said Sue. "You said you were going to!"

"I know—but I didn't," answered Nell, a faint tinge of pink in her pallid cheeks. "I—I didn't see the need of destroying it. I supposed nobody knew, and I—I thought I'd keep it as a—a souvenir, you know. I had it in my desk. I am sure I locked it before I came down this evening, but just now I found it open and the note gone."

"Well, and what did you do then?"

"I looked all through the desk—I thought maybe it had slipped out of sight somehow—but it hadn't—it wasn't there. Then I called the maid, Julie, and told her something had been stolen. She swore no one had entered the room since I left it—that no one could have entered it. Of course, I couldn't tell her about the note, so I sent her away and came to you. I—I feel like a traitor. I don't know what to do!"

Susie went to her and put her arms about her and drew her close.

"We can't do anything to-night, dear," she said; "that's certain. To-morrow you must tell Lord Vernon."

She felt Nell quiver at the words and drew her closer still, with intimate understanding.

"I don't believe he will care so much," she went on, comfortingly. "Perhaps the note isn't so important as we think. I suppose we should have destroyed it at once."

"Yes," said Nell, drearily, "I suppose we should. But who could have foreseen anything like this!"

"The best thing to do now is to go to bed," added Sue, practically, and she raised her sister and led her back to her room. "In the morning we can make a thorough search for the note. Perhaps, after all, you overlooked it."

"I couldn't have overlooked it," answered Nell. "I remember perfectly placing it in this drawer," she continued, going to the desk and opening it, "here, just under this pile of note-paper."

"Perhaps it slipped in between the sheets," suggested Sue.

"I thought of that," said Nell, but nevertheless she began mechanically to open sheet after sheet. As she opened the third one, a little slip of paper fluttered to the floor.

She sprang upon it with a cry of joy, opened it, glanced at it.

"Thank God!" she said, thickly. "It's all right—it's—"

And she fell forward into Susie's arms.



CHAPTER XIII

The Second Promenade

Again the sun rose clear and bright, and again, having dispelled the mist and chill of the early morning, it lured forth for the inevitable promenade such of the sojourners at Weet-sur-Mer as had managed to get to bed before dawn. Prince Markeld, descending with the earliest, left nothing this time to chance, but took his station at the stairfoot, and waited there with a patience really exemplary. From which it will be seen that Princes in love are much as other men.

And presently, descending toward him, he descried the Misses Rushford; Susie radiant as the morning, Nell a trifle paler than her wont, but more beautiful, if anything, because of it. The Prince hastened forward to greet them.

"Which way shall we go?" he asked, with the comfortable certainty of including himself in their plans. "Good-morning," he added, to the occupant of an invalid chair which was standing just outside the door.

"Good-morning," replied Lord Vernon, his eyes on Nell's. "My outing yesterday was such a pleasant one that I was hoping it might be repeated."

"Going or coming?" queried Sue, with a quizzical curve of the lips.

"Both ways," answered Vernon, promptly; but his eyes were still on Nell.

Markeld also looked excellently satisfied.

"Very well," he said, in his autocratic way, "we will proceed as we did yesterday," and he led Susie away. Strange to relate, she followed quite meekly. Somehow, when the moment came, it seemed exceedingly difficult to snub him.

"Do you know," he was saying, "I fell quite in love with your father last night. His point of view is so fresh and so full of humour. Though," he added, "I must confess that sometimes I did not entirely understand him."

"Didn't you?" laughed Susie. "Dad does use a good deal of slang. It's an American failing."

"So I have heard. I know my aunt will like him, too—the Dowager Duchess of Markheim, you know."

"No," said Sue, a little faintly, "I didn't know." She had never before considered the possibility of the Prince having any women relatives; her heart fell as she thought what dreadful creatures they would probably prove to be.

"My aunt is the head of the family," explained the Prince, calmly, unconscious of his companion's perturbation. "She rules us with a rod of iron. But you will like her and I know she will like you. She adores anything with fire in it."

"Oh," said Susie, to herself, "and how does he know I've any fire in me?" But she judged it wisest not to utter the question aloud.

"She worships spirit," added the Prince. "She is very fond of quoting a line of your poet, Browning. 'What have I on earth to do,' she will demand, 'with the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly?' Sometimes, I fear, she aims the adjectives at me."

Susie felt her heart softening, for she liked that line, too.

"I don't believe you deserve the adjectives,'' she said.

"Do you not?" he asked, eagerly, with brightened eyes.

"And I should like to meet your aunt," she continued, hastily.

"So you shall, most certainly," he assented, instantly. "As soon as it can be arranged."

"Oh, does it have to be arranged?" inquired Susie, in some dismay.

"Not in that sense—she is very democratic—she likes people for what they are. But until this question of the succession is concluded you will readily understand that, through anxiety, she is not in the best of humours—not quite herself."

"Is she, then, here?" asked Susie.

"Here? Oh, no; she is at Markheim—at the post of duty. That is another reason—until this affair is settled, I cannot ask her to join me here."

"You will ask her to do that?"

"Certainly; she can stop here very well on her way to Ostend. She would be at Ostend now but for this affair. Perhaps that is another reason why she is ill-humoured. She is so fond of life and gaiety, and in summer Markheim is rather dull. Besides, there is the tradition to maintain."

"How do you know that she is in an ill-humour," questioned Sue, "if you have not seen her?"

"Oh, she writes to me—I had a letter from her this morning. I can see she is not well-pleased—quite the opposite, in fact!—at the way things are going."

"And how are they going?"

"They seem to be going against us," said the Prince, with a touch of bitterness.

"But how can they be? I thought things were at a stand-still until Lord Vernon got—got well enough to take them up again."

"So did I—that is what one would naturally suppose. Yet it seems that an undercurrent has set in against us. I fear that I made a mistake," he added, gloomily, "in agreeing with Lord Vernon not to proceed further for a week, though, under the circumstances, I could scarcely refuse. He seems well enough," and he glanced around, "to hear what I have to say."

"He is well enough!" cried Sue, indignantly; and certainly at that moment, talking eagerly to Nell, that gentleman appeared quite the reverse of an invalid. "I will speak to him—I am under no promise—I believe—"

She stopped, fearing that she might say too much—after all, she could not betray Lord Vernon; she could only appeal to him, warn him.

"Yes?" her companion encouraged her, his eyes on her face.

"I believe that I can help you," she concluded, a little lamely. "I want to help—the people. Of course, we Americans believe that a people ought to choose their own rulers—but where that isn't possible, the next best thing is to give them the best available. I should be proud to help do that!"

"But you are taking my word for it," he protested. "You ought to hear the other side. Perhaps they might convince you—"

"No, they wouldn't!" cried Susie. "Your word is all I need; you've explained things so clearly."

"Thank you," he said, in a vibrant voice, still looking at her.

"Besides," she added, with a glance upward, "dad agrees with you, and I've a great deal of faith in dad."

"I shall be very glad of your help on any terms," he said, refusing to be cast down.

"And you will tell me if anything unexpected happens? I may be able to help you more than you think."

"Yes," he promised, "I will tell you the moment I have any news."

"You haven't any real news—about the undercurrent, I mean? You don't really know—"

"No; it is just in the air; I do not know where the rumours come from, but my aunt has heard them also. There is a vague impression that we are losing."

"But you shan't lose!" cried Susie. "You shan't lose; not even if I have to—to—"

"Not even if you have to—?" prompted the Prince, eagerly, as she stammered and stopped.

"To play my trump card," she finished, with a little unsteady laugh. "Don't ask me what it is, but it's a good one!"

* * * * *

Meanwhile, as she walked beside the invalid chair, Nell was making her confession.

"Lord Vernon," she began, in a low voice, "for a time last night, I feared that I had utterly ruined your cause."

He glanced up at her quickly.

"In what way?" he asked.

"You remember the note you wrote m—us the first day?"

"Perfectly," he answered, noting the stammer, and understanding it, with a quick leap of the heart.

"I should, no doubt, have destroyed it at once, but I thought it would be perfectly safe in my desk."

"And it was stolen? No matter, Miss Rushford. It isn't worth worrying about. I'm sick of the whole affair, anyway—I shall rather welcome the catastrophe. You've lost sleep over it," he continued, looking at her keenly. "It has made you almost ill! I shall never forgive myself!"

"Thank you," she said, softly, her lips trembling, her eyes very bright. "It is beautiful of you to be so generous. But fortunately the note was not stolen. I found it afterwards among some note-paper, where it had somehow found its way."

"And you destroyed it?"

"No," she said, and took it from her bosom. "I thought I would better restore it to you, so that you yourself could destroy it. Here it is," and she held it out to him with fingers not wholly steady.

He took it, his eyes still on her face.

"It has caused us enough trouble," he said, and made as though to tear it into bits.

But Nell laid her hand upon his arm.

"Without looking at it?" she protested.

"You are right," he agreed, and opened it and glanced at the contents.

His hands were trembling slightly as he folded it again.

"On second thought," he said, and there was a certain thickness in the words which Nell was too agitated to notice, "I believe that I shall keep it. It is the only souvenir I have, you know, of our first meeting."

And he smiled up at her—such a smile as Meiamoun must have bent upon Cleopatra as he drained the poisoned cup.



CHAPTER XIV

A Bearding of the Lion

Susie Rushford was of that temperament which, so far from avoiding difficulties, rather rushes to meet them, welcoming "each rebuff that turns earth's smoothness rough," to quote again from her favourite poet.

So, when they reached the end of the promenade, it was she who commanded a change of partners and who took her place resolutely beside the invalid chair. Perhaps Lord Vernon scented danger, or it may be that he merely resented the change of companions: at any rate, as they started back, he contented himself with a dignified silence. But Sue was not to be so easily put off.

"The Prince of Markeld has been telling me a few things about the succession," she began, resolutely. "You will pardon me, Lord Vernon, when I say I don't think you're treating him quite fairly."

"I don't think so myself, Miss Rushford," returned the occupant of the chair, curtly.

"His branch of the house seems to be really, in every way, the more deserving."

"I haven't the least doubt of it."

"And the one which the people of Schloshold-Markheim prefer."

"That, too, is very probably the case. We threshed all that out yesterday, didn't we?"

"Not so thoroughly as I should like to do," said Susie. "I've been thinking over the story you told me yesterday, and I believe I've guessed who the man with the pistol is."

"I thought very probably you would guess."

"Did you? Then you won't mind telling me if I've guessed rightly. It's the German Emperor, isn't it?"

"It is."

"Thank you. But I'm awfully obtuse, for I must confess that I haven't as yet been able to perceive the pistol."

"Haven't you? I thought you'd guess that, too. I had forgotten that American women aren't interested in public events."

"Now you're growing sarcastic!" cried Susie. "You see, I never before knew how interesting they were," she added, in self-defence. "I'm trying to turn over a new leaf—"

"And you want my help?"

"I always like to understand things. Even as a child I hated riddles. And I think, too, that nations ought to be like individuals—only more so—always ready, anxious even, to help their friends."

"Even to the point of disregarding the pistol?"

"You'll have to show me the pistol."

"I'll try to, Miss Rushford," said Vernon, with the air of a man staking his last louis, "since you seem to doubt that it exists. Let us look at the matter for a moment from the outside, without question of our personal likes or dislikes. England, just at this moment, has her hands full in South Africa, and it isn't in the least unlikely that the German Emperor would put a finger in that pie, if we gave him an excuse—a great many of his advisers are trying to get him to interfere without waiting for the excuse, but he's not quite willing to go that far. So our business is not to give him any excuse—not even the very slightest. Suppose we meddle in this affair of Schloshold-Markheim, which is really his dependency—don't you see, he might easily, and quite logically, claim that as a precedent for meddling in the affairs of the Transvaal, which we claim as our dependency. Now I hope that you perceive the pistol, and see, too, that it isn't in the least a toy affair, but a very dangerous and effective weapon."