Pachmann started violently, and a wave of angry red swept over his face.

"Impossible!" he cried. "Impossible! To that we can never consent!"

Vard smiled at his emotion.

"Why not?" he asked, ironically.

"Because," shouted Pachmann, "Elsass and Lorraine are German—they were stolen from Germany by France two centuries ago."

"They were not German—they were independent states; and they are not German now. They are French. However, I am quite willing to leave the final decision to the people of those provinces. You cannot object to that!"

Pachmann shifted his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. His face was livid.

"Beware that you do not attempt too much, my dear sir," he said, and there was in his voice a covert threat not to be disguised. "I warn you. But, in this connection, some other questions occur to me. What of Ireland?"

"The Irish shall decide."

"South Africa?"

"Most of it belongs to the Boers."

"That, at least, is a grain of comfort. But India, Egypt?"

"I cannot answer that. India and Egypt must be made the subjects of careful study and the government given them which will be best for their peoples, and which will not drain them of their wealth, as England does. There will be many such problems, and the best minds of the world must study them. My answers to your questions are but suggestions. All such problems must be settled by an international court, which shall proceed upon the theory that all peoples capable of self-government shall have absolute freedom, and all other peoples shall be made capable of governing themselves as rapidly as possible. Each people shall be free to decide for itself as to its form of government, but shall be required to pledge itself to the principle of universal peace. That pledge will be necessary only at first—after fifty years of peace, no nation will ever think of war! I know that, for a generation or two, there will be difficulties. We have grown suspicious of each other; we have become hardened by hatred and injustice. But time will change all that. Let us lay down our arms, disband our armies, restore what we have stolen, and, instead of hatred, we shall find love in our hearts. Instead of oppression, we shall have justice, tempered with mercy. Each man will have his work to do, and none who works will go hungry; and we will end by becoming citizens, not of Germany, France, or of any other country, but of the world! I tell you, sir, that our great-grandchildren, looking back at us from a world at peace and united in brotherhood, will wonder at us—we shall seem to them blind savages, murderers, lunatics!"

It was evident enough that the Prince was moved. He was young, he had always been something of a dreamer. Rigid training at his father's hands had gone far to dispel the dreams, but they were not quite rooted out. Now, at the words of this supreme idealist, this inspired dreamer, they revived again. He sat regarding the speaker with misty eyes, his mouth a little open, his hands gripped in front of him. Pachmann, glancing at him, passed his hands before his lips to wipe away a sneer.

"All most interesting," commented the Admiral, in his ironical voice. "I think that we understand your proposal fully. There is only one point upon which you have not made yourself quite clear. Should we be unable to agree, what will be your next step?"

"I thought I had already told you," answered Vard, impatiently. "Should we disagree, I shall offer France the same opportunity which I now offer Germany."

"You will find France sceptical."

"Then I shall offer her the same proof I offered you. That will be just, will it not?" and Vard looked straight into Pachmann's eyes.

Pachmann sprang from his chair, his mouth working, his eyes suffused.

"You will destroy one of our ships?" he demanded, his voice hoarse.

"A ship or a fort—it shall be for France to choose."

Pachmann's fingers were twitching visibly to be at the other's throat. But by a mighty effort he controlled himself, flung himself again into his chair and poured himself out a glass of brandy from the bottle at his elbow.

"Will you drink?" he asked, over his shoulder.

"No, thank you," answered Vard.

The Prince sat without moving, still staring at the inventor. Meeting his eyes, Vard smiled slightly.

Pachmann set down his glass, and turned back to them.

"I must ask you to pardon me," he said. "I lost my self-control—a thing I do not often do—but your suggestions seemed to me insupportable. However, I can perceive that there is another side to them. I think we understand your proposal now, most thoroughly. There are certain details which the Prince and I must discuss together, before we can submit an answer. In a matter of such moment, we must proceed with the greatest care. This is Thursday. I think we can be ready by Saturday evening."

"Very well," agreed Vard, rising. "The same hour, in this room?"

"If that pleases you."

"It does."

He bowed coldly to Pachmann; then, with a sudden gesture, held out his hand to the Prince. But Pachmann interposed before the Prince could take it.

"That I cannot permit," he said grimly, and he opened the door.

A barefooted sailor, clad in white duck, standing on the deck outside, saluted. Pachmann stood for a moment staring after Vard's retreating figure; then he turned back into the room. The Prince was helping himself to a drink, and Pachmann joined him.

"Yes," he said, "this is what we need, after all that raving."

"Would you call it that?" asked the Prince.

"Raving? Yes, it was precisely that! The man is mad, my Prince; absolutely mad. No one but a madman would speak as he does—of citizens of the world, the brotherhood of man, and all that folly!"

The Prince drained his glass.

"I fear you are right," he said, as he set it down. "Yes, I fear you are right, and that it is only folly!"

"There is one thing you must not forget," added Pachmann, his hand on the door; "since he is mad, it is as a madman he must be treated!" and he led the way out upon the deck.

* * * * *

Somewhere in the dim hours of the night, Dan Webster was awakened by a glare of light in his eyes. He opened them to find that the electric lamp beside the wash-stand was burning. Peering over the edge of his berth, he beheld a curious sight. Chevrial was sitting on his berth, half undressed, examining tenderly one of his toes, and swearing softly to himself. He glanced up, met Dan's astonished eyes, and laughed.

"Man is a ridiculous animal," he said. "The feet with which he has been provided are absurd—no doubt because they were really intended to be hands. They are too sensitive, too undefended. Blundering around here in the darkness, I have injured one of my toes, and it hurts devilishly. Pardon me for awaking you, my friend. Good night!"

He turned off the light, and Dan lay back upon his pillow, with strange thoughts whirling in his head.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE SUBSTITUTE SENTRY

Admiral Pachmann turned into his berth, that night, extremely well-satisfied with himself, for he was convinced that the cards were in his hands and the game as good as won. And what a game! For his King, world-empire; for himself—but the Admiral did not permit himself to name the reward. He knew well that he would not be forgotten when the moment came for the distribution of honours. Was not the whole plan his? Had he not worked it out to its minutest detail? Had he not carried it through? And how adroitly, how triumphantly! Even the Emperor would have to acknowledge that!

Let us do the Admiral justice: he loved his country, he was ready at any moment to lay down his life for her, he would have laboured just as earnestly without hope of other reward than the sight of her aggrandisement: but, just the same, when the honours came, he was not one to refuse them! World-empire would mean governorships, suzerainties....

He was lying in his berth next morning, half dozing, smiling to himself as all this passed before his mind in august and glittering procession, when there came a tap at the door. He got up, opened it, and a sealed note was handed in. A glance at the other berth showed that the Prince had already risen. Pachmann tore open the note and read its contents with some astonishment. It was from the Captain, and asked for an immediate conference on a matter of great importance.

Pachmann dressed hastily, and, as he did so, considered whether he should hunt up the Prince and summon him, also, to this conference. He decided against it. He foresaw that in this affair there would be many things which it would be unwise for the Prince to know—he had sat staring like an idiot, last night, while the mad Pole raved about love and mercy and universal brotherhood; he was too young, too easily impressed, too soft of heart. He had agreed that victory must be won at any price, but Pachmann very well knew that he had no idea of how terrible that price was almost certain to be. No; the Prince must be kept as much as possible on the borders of this affair! So, having finished dressing, the Admiral went forward alone to the Captain's cabin.

He found the Captain sitting at his desk, and his face was so grave that it gave Pachmann a little start.

He rose and greeted the Admiral, and then glanced over the latter's shoulder, as though expecting to see some one else.

"You did not bring the Prince?" he asked.

"Do you think it necessary?" retorted Pachmann, tartly.

Hausmann hesitated.

"I am not, of course, aware of your relative positions in this affair," he said, finally.

"The paper I showed you yesterday should have told you that," said Pachmann quickly. "The affair has been in my hands from the first. The Prince was sent along because his father wished to separate him from a Berlin bar-maid."

"Ah, so," said the Captain, without smiling. "I understand. Be seated." He did not like Pachmann, and also, perhaps, he found the jesting reference to the royal love affairs in bad taste. "A very strange thing has occurred," he continued. "I stationed one of my men outside the door, last night, in order that you might not be interrupted."

"Yes," agreed the Admiral, "and he did his duty very well. We were not interrupted."

"He was found this morning, unconscious, in one of the boats on the upper deck."

Pachmann looked at the speaker in some surprise.

"Well," he asked, "what of it? Some sailor's row."

"I thought so too, at first. But he became conscious, just now, and declares that he was struck down from behind."

Pachmann shrugged his shoulders.

"He is probably lying. In any event, it is of no concern to me. He was on duty at the door when the conference closed."

The Captain stared at him as though not understanding.

"What is it you say?" he asked.

"I say," repeated Pachmann, impatiently, "that he was on duty when we left your cabin. What happened to him after that is of no importance."

"At what hour did you leave?" asked the Captain, still staring.

"About midnight. Why do you look at me like that?"

"The man swears," said Hausmann, slowly, "that he was struck down soon after you entered the cabin."

Pachmann jumped in his chair.

"He says that!" he gasped. "But that is impossible—he is lying!"

"Perhaps you would wish to interrogate him?" Hausmann suggested.

Pachmann nodded mutely, and the Captain touched a bell.

"Send Schroeder here," he said to the man who answered.

The man saluted and closed the door again, and the Captain and his visitor sat looking at each other in silence. Both were disturbed; but Pachmann was by far the more dismayed of the two. To his companion, it was merely a fracture of the discipline of his ship; but to Pachmann it was the end of the world! Try as he might to maintain his self-composure, he could not stop the nervous trembling of his hands; and from time to time he moistened his lips and swallowed with great effort. He felt himself stricken to the heart; he scarcely dared permit himself to think what it meant for him, for his King, for Germany, if this man spoke the truth.

And then the door opened and the man himself entered—a typical German sailor, with bronzed countenance, and short curly brown beard, and honest blue eyes—not too intelligent, but faithful, strong and dependable. Yes, and honest—one could see that. He was barefooted and clad in a suit of duck, which had been white originally but was now much soiled. About his head was a bandage. He saluted and stood at attention, while Pachmann looked him over.

"Tell us what occurred last night," the Captain ordered. "Think carefully and omit nothing."

"There is not much to tell, sir," the man replied. "You yourself gave me my orders. I was to stand out there, before the door, and prevent any one knocking. To all who asked for you, I was to say that you were on the bridge."

The Captain nodded.

"That is right," he said. "Continue."

"You then went up to the bridge, and I took the station you had assigned me. I did not know who was in the cabin, but I could hear voices."

"Ah! cried Pachmann, with a frown. "You could hear voices! Could you also hear words?"

"I do not know, sir; I did not listen. I know better than to listen when officers are talking."

"Continue," said the Captain again.

"I stood there for perhaps ten minutes. There were a few passengers strolling about farther down the deck, but you had caused a rope to be stretched across to prevent any one coming as far as your cabin."

Again the Captain nodded.

"Yes, I took that precaution, also," he said.

"Then," concluded Schroeder, "something struck me a great blow on the head, and I knew no more until I awoke to find the doctor working over me."

Pachmann looked at him searchingly for several minutes, but the man met his gaze without flinching.

"Are you sure that is all?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"You do not remember standing at the door, when it was opened, and saluting the gentlemen who came out?"

"No, sir; I remember nothing of that."

"You say you were at the door only ten minutes?"

"It may have been a little longer than that, sir; a very little."

"Have you had a quarrel with any member of the crew?"

"No, sir; I am on good terms with all of them."

"Think carefully; is there not one who might have wished to revenge himself?"

But Schroeder shook his head decidedly.

"It was no member of the crew, sir; not one of them is my enemy."

"Then who was it?" Pachmann demanded.

"That I cannot say, sir."

"You heard nothing before the blow was struck?"

"Nothing, sir; I have told you all I remember."

"And you persist that you have no idea who struck the blow?"

"I have not the slightest idea, sir."

Pachmann looked at Schroeder again, and then turned away.

"That is all," said the Captain; "and remember, you are to speak of this to no one."

"Yes, sir," said Schroeder, and withdrew.

Pachmann took a turn about the cabin, frowning heavily.

"What do you make of it?" he asked, at last.

"It seems plain enough," Hausmann answered. "Some one knocked Schroeder down and took his place at the door."

"Yes, yes," said Pachmann, impatiently. "But who was it, and what was his purpose?"

"His purpose, also, seems clear to me," said the Captain, quietly. "He wished to hear what was going on in my cabin."

"He was a member of your crew," said Pachmann. "I saw him—he was barefooted—he wore a uniform."

"Did you see his face? Would you know him again?"

Pachmann hesitated.

"I fear not. He was standing in the shadow, and I was preoccupied and barely glanced at him. I cannot even say that it was not Schroeder."

"I do not believe it was any member of my crew," said the Captain.

"Then who was it?"

"That, of course, I cannot say. But why should one of my crew do such a thing?"

"There may be a traitor among them."

"We know the history of every man. They are all good Germans. We are very careful. But even if there was a traitor, how would he know of this conference?"

Pachmann threw up his hands with a gesture of despair, and dropped into a chair.

"How would any one know?" he demanded. "I mentioned it to no one but the Prince and yourself. Vard himself did not know of it till I summoned him."

Hausmann looked at the speaker steadily.

"I trust that you are not insinuating that it is I who am the traitor?" he asked.

"No, no," protested Pachmann hastily. "I tell you this in order that you may realise how incredible this is to me. After all, it may have been a member of the crew who knew nothing of the conference—who was there by accident at the moment we came out."

"I do not see," the Captain began, but a knock at the door stopped him. "Come in!" he called, and the wardrobe-steward entered. "Well, what is it?"

"I have to report, sir," answered the steward, "that a suit of white duck has been stolen."

Hausmann could not refrain from casting a glance of triumph at the Admiral.

"When did you discover it?" he asked.

"Only a few minutes ago, sir. I reported to the head-steward, and he told me to come at once to you."

"That was right. Do you know when it was stolen?"

"Sometime during the night, sir. It had been washed and returned to me yesterday evening not quite dry. I hung it before a ventilator and when I went for it this morning, it was no longer there."

"Very well," said the Captain. "I will investigate the matter," and the steward left the cabin. Hausmann looked at his companion. "You see, it was not one of the crew," he said.

Pachmann was out of his chair and striding savagely up and down, his self-control completely broken down. He had fancied himself quite safe, and here he was tottering on the edge of an abyss.

"It is evidently the work of a spy," added Hausmann, who, perhaps, was not wholly displeased that the Admiral should have met with a reverse. "There can be no doubt of it! We know that Lepine suspects something. This is probably one of his men—and a most daring and resourceful one."

"If that is true," said Pachmann, hoarsely, "he must not leave this ship alive! We must find him. And we must watch the wireless. Every message must be most carefully inspected."

"I will see that that is done," Hausmann agreed. "But to find the man—how do you propose to accomplish that?"

"When do your officers start their examination of the passengers for the immigration record?"

"They can start at once, if you wish."

"I do wish; and I wish also to be present."

"Very well," agreed the Captain. "We will start immediately after breakfast."

"You could be of very great help, Captain," Pachmann added, "if you would go over the passenger-list and check off the passengers with whom you are personally acquainted. No doubt you know a great many of them?"

"Yes; but the purser knows even more. Shall I ask him also to check the list?"

"If you will. It would save much time."

"You will understand," said Hausmann, slowly, "that I feel I should know more of this affair before I consent to take an active part in it; but I can, at least, save the passengers whom I know, and who are friends of mine, the annoyance of needless questioning. There is one thing more I might do; there are also on board a few men who have crossed with me before, but who, I am convinced, are not the gentlemen of wealth and leisure they pretend to be. They may be only sharpers—or they may be something else. In front of the name of each of them I will place a cross."

"Thank you," said Pachmann.

"On one condition," added the Captain. "You said, but just now, that if you discovered this person, you would not permit him to leave this boat alive. That was an exaggeration, perhaps."

"Not in the least!" answered Pachmann, hoarsely. "I myself will kill him!"

"My condition, then, is," said the Captain, "that you renounce that project. I am willing that he should be detained and returned to Germany. Further than that I will not go."

Pachmann's fingers tapped the pocket of his coat.

"No," added Hausmann, "not even for that paper!"

Pachmann gazed at him a moment with distorted face. Then he nodded.

"Very well," he said; "I consent. But it is you who take the responsibility. I warn you that, if the man escapes, your career on the sea will be at an end—you will find all Germany closed against you."

"I will take the responsibility," said Hausmann, quietly. "You agree, then?"

"Yes, I agree," said Pachmann, and hurried away to get his breakfast.

And all that day, he sat beside the assistant purser, while the first-cabin passengers were called up, one by one, to make it clear that they were entitled to land in America. The questions are always searching, for the immigration laws are very strict and there are many spaces to be filled in on the great blanks which the immigration bureau furnishes; but that day they were more searching than ever—so far, at least, as the male passengers were concerned. In the women, Pachmann did not interest himself, for he took it for granted that no woman could have struck Schroeder senseless with a single blow; but on every man he directed the severest scrutiny.

Even if the name had been checked by the Captain or purser on the list he held in his hand, he never failed to satisfy himself by a few questions; and the unfortunate possessors of the names before which a cross appeared had reason to remember that interrogation all their lives. With some three or four of them, the interrogation was continued in private and even extended to a search of their belongings and a scrutiny of every document in their possession; but, while some of them were forced to confess at last that they were adventurers, gamblers, with only such means of livelihood as their wits procured them, there was nothing to show that any of them was the agent of any government.

All day Saturday the examination was continued, and by dinner-time the first-class list was completed, much to the relief of the passengers, who came away from the interrogation with ruffled tempers and a feeling of humiliation. All sorts of rumours were afloat among them. There was an absconder on board, a murderer, a political refugee, an eloping couple—the customs authorities had got wind of the fact that there was a celebrated smuggler on board, and every passenger was to be searched when he reached the pier—the rumours ran the gamut of all crimes and all scandals, and made every one extremely uncomfortable, but none of them touched the truth.

And Pachmann had to confess himself, thus far, defeated. There remained the second-class, and he determined to scrutinise it even more closely than he had the first. The thought that he might fail, after all, dismayed him. To fail meant disgrace—personal, irremediable disgrace; it meant the betrayal of his Emperor; worse than that, in his failure France would triumph! He trembled with anguish—not wholly for himself, for he was a brave man and a patriot—but for his Fatherland.

So Saturday evening came, and with it the hour of the second conference.

* * * * *

For the other personages of this story, those two days had been rather eventless ones. The weather continued fine and the great ship ploughed steadily westward. The passengers got to know each other; little cliques were formed, centring about mutual acquaintances; there were card-parties, dances, the inevitable concert, dinners in the cafe, the usual pools, the usual night-long games of poker, the usual excitements of passing ships and schools of dolphins—in a word, the usual procession of trivial incidents which make up life on a great liner.

But in this life, Ignace Vard and his daughter had no part. Their meals were served in their sitting-room, so that they missed that great acquaintance-maker, the dinner table. Kasia, remembering the warning she had received, kept aloof from every one; and Vard's ironical manner was enough to keep every one aloof from him. However he did not notice it, for he had discovered, among the books in the library, three novels by Mr. John Galsworthy, and they absorbed him. He had been looking through the books rather hopelessly, when the title, "The Island Pharisees," had caught his eye. He opened the book, read a page, took it to his room and finished it at a sitting. Its irony expressed him precisely, and over the letter of apology and adieu from the wandering Frenchman to the lady of the manor he fairly wept with joy. After that came "Fraternity" and "The Man of Property," so that for him the two days passed quickly. One thing about these books he could not understand—that they should have been written by an Englishman!

Kasia did not return to the rendezvous on the after boat-deck. Something held her back—an emotion of shyness new to her. But on Saturday afternoon, Dan ran the blockade of the after companion-way, penetrated brazenly to the first-class promenade, joined her where she stood leaning against the rail, and led her away resolutely to a seat on the upper deck.

"Is this the way to treat an old friend?" he demanded. "Are you aware that I sat for hours, last night...."

She laid a warning finger on his sleeve.

"We must not run any risk," she said, in a low tone. "No one must suspect that we know each other."

His face brightened. She had accepted the term "old friend," without appearing surprised by it.

"Was that the reason?"

She nodded.

"You wanted to come?"

Another nod.

Dan breathed a long sigh of happiness.

"That makes it all right," he said. "I forgive you. And after you're ashore I may come to see you?"

"Certainly you may!"

"What is your address?"

"Two hundred and ten West Sixty-fourth Street."

He made a note of it.

"May I come the first evening?"

She laughed a delicious laugh—a laugh of pure joy. There was nothing of the coquette about Kasia. She was all woman.

"If you wish," she said.

"Thank you—I do wish. Besides, I shall have something to return to you."

"Hush!" she cautioned, with a frightened glance around. "Do not speak of it. And I must be going. We must not sit here so long together."

He sighed.

"I suppose you are right," he agreed. "But every evening I shall sit on a certain bench and think of you. And, remember, the first evening on land is mine."

"I shall remember."

"Good-bye till then," he said, and rose.

"Good-bye, my friend."

Her eyes were shining. He dared not trust himself to look at them a second time, but turned himself about, by main force, as it were, and marched himself off, straight along the deck, down the ladder, and up again to "a certain bench."

And there, presently, M. Chevrial joined him, but for once Dan found that witty Frenchman something of a bore.



CHAPTER XIX

THE SECOND CONFERENCE

Again a rope was stretched across the forward promenade, and, for the information of the curious, a sign attached to it bearing the single word "Paint." Again a guard was stationed in front of the Captain's cabin, but this time it consisted of two petty officers. Again the Captain surprised his subordinates by mounting to the bridge, although the night was clear and fine. They noticed that he was lost in thought, and that he went often to the head of the ladder leading to the deck and glanced down it. The second officer was on duty, and he took occasion to look down, too, on one of his turns along the bridge, but all he could see was a stretch of empty deck and two petty officers leaning against the rail chatting together. The second officer wondered more and more at his commander's uneasiness, and surreptitiously inspected the barometer, tapping it with his finger; but he knew better than to ask any questions.

Meanwhile, in the Captain's cabin, Vard, Pachmann and the Prince again faced each other. Perhaps it would be more exact to say that Vard and Pachmann faced each other, while the Prince looked on from the side-lines. In the heart of that young gentleman, for the past three days, there had been a strange distress, hitherto unknown among Hohenzollerns—the distress of realising that, if truth were told, he was a poor thing who added not to the wealth of the world, but to its poverty; who was unable to support himself, but to support whom men and women and children toiled and starved.

He had never seen it just like that before; reared in the family tradition, it had seemed a law of nature that he should have subjects to work for him and suffer for him and die for him, if need be; he had been taught that it was God himself who had given place and power to his house; and that, if other less-favoured people lived in misery and died in want, why that was doubtless God's will, too. And as for war—why, without war there could be no glory, no conquest, no chivalry. It was war which held a nation together, which made Kings more powerful and thrones more stable! But now came a man with shining eyes who talked of the sinful folly of war, of the wanton waste of armies; who dreamed of universal brotherhood, and a world governed by love! Wild words, foolish dreams, perhaps—and yet most dangerous to the idea of the divine right of Kings! So, that evening, the Prince sat and listened, and tried to understand.

It was Pachmann who did most of the talking, and a great deal of it was for the Prince's benefit.

"We have been considering your proposal, Mr. Vard," he began, "and have discussed it thoroughly."

As a matter of fact, he had not exchanged a word with the Prince on the subject; he had distrusted him ever since Vard had offered him his hand, for that action showed that this anarchist, this socialist, this enemy of Kings, had detected in this young descendant of Kings sympathy and a certain understanding. Pachmann thought of it with disgust and horror.

"We have discussed it thoroughly," Pachmann repeated, and the Prince, who detected the contempt in the words, flushed hotly, but did not speak; "and there are certain objections to your plan which we wish to submit to you. The first of these is that war does not depend upon explosives. Before gunpowder, men fought with swords and lances and arrows; before the discovery of iron and steel, with clubs and stones. Man has always been fighting, even when he had no weapons but his fists."

"That is true," assented Vard. "Pray continue."

"My argument is," went on Pachmann, dropping the plural once for all, "that, though you may render all explosives useless, and blow up forts and battleships and arsenals, you will not stop war. You will merely compel it to shift to another basis—to the old basis, probably, of brute strength, of hand-to-hand combat. And if you do that, the old days will return of barbarian invasions. The Turk will sweep down again on southern Europe; the Tartars will invade us from the east. You will not assist civilisation; you will set it back a thousand years. It will have to fight again for its very existence, as it did in the Middle Ages."

But Vard shook his head.

"I have thought of that," he said. "In the first place, it will be permitted to continue the use of explosives against the barbarians—for defence, you understand, not for aggression—until such time as we can persuade them, too, to lay down their arms. As to your other objection, it falls to the ground the moment you agree with me that all the nations of the world must ultimately become democracies. At first, it is true, men fought of their own volition, but it was to secure food, to guard their homes, or to replenish their supply of women. But since those very early days, all wars have been wars not of the people, but of their rulers. They were wars of revenge or of ambition, in which the people joined because they had no choice. They were driven into the ranks, were sometimes sold by one power to fight for another. Left to their own choice, they would have remained quietly at home, tilling their fields, rearing their families. The only great exception I know of is the early wars of Napoleon. To those wars, the French people did undoubtedly rush; but they were still drunk from the Revolution, and their ardour soon passed. Your own people, the people of Germany, are a peaceable, home-loving people. You have always had to keep them under your thumb by forced service, by conscription, by the most rigorous laws; you have always had to drive them to war."

"Another exception occurs to me," said Pachmann, disregarding the last sentence, "and one to which I would call your attention, since it occurred in a country where the people are supposed to govern. It was the people of the United States who drove their rulers into the war with Spain."

"That is true," Vard agreed; "and it was a mistake. The people will sometimes err when their sympathy is appealed to and their passion aroused. But the results of that war were, on the whole, good. A people was freed."

"And another enslaved," said Pachmann, with a sneer.

"It was already enslaved," Vard corrected; "but I admit that it was continued in slavery. That was done by the rulers, not by the people. Had the people been permitted to decide, the Philippines would have been free, no less than Cuba. Their independence must, of course, be guaranteed when the United States signs our treaty."

"But you admit, as I understand you," said Pachmann, returning to the main point, "that to abolish explosives will not abolish war."

"I admit that, yes. To abolish explosives is only the first step. The final step will be the abolition of hereditary rule."

"The abolition of Kings?"

"The abolition of Kings, of Emperors, of Czars, of Princes, of Dukes, of all tyrants, great and small, who, by reason of birth, now claim the right to tax or oppress or command even the meanest of their fellow-creatures. There must be rulers, yes; but it is for the people themselves to choose them, and then willingly to submit to them."

"But you are at this moment treating with a King," Pachmann pointed out. "Can you expect him to agree to such a programme?"

"The world has outgrown Kings," retorted Vard. "In any event, another fifty years will see them all abolished. I but hasten the end a little—the millennium. And he will be happier when he is merely a man like other men."

"Happiness is not the greatest thing in the world," Pachmann objected.

"And I say it is!" cried Vard, with sudden violence. "Not our own happiness—no; but the happiness of our fellow-creatures. That is the greatest thing in the world; the thing for which every wise and good man labours!"

There was a moment's silence. The Prince shifted uneasily in his chair and clasped and unclasped his hands. There had never been such talk as this in the royal nursery!

Pachmann's face was cynical, as he lighted a fresh cigar.

"Dreams!" he sneered. "Beautiful dreams! Do you know what it is you are undertaking? You are undertaking to change human nature."

"That is an old cry," retorted Vard scornfully. "And what if I were? Human nature is changing every day! But I am not undertaking to change it—I wish merely to free human nature from the fetters with which tyrants bind it, so that it may grow straight and strong, as God intended."

"I am not acquainted with God's intentions," said Pachmann coldly. "He does not confide in me. But my philosophy, my observation, and my experience teach me that the wise man makes the best of things as they are, accepts the facts of life, and does what he can. He sees that the world is too big for him to overturn, he realises that there are many things he cannot understand, his intelligence sometimes revolts at what seems to be oppression and injustice. But he puts away from him the fallacy that all men are equal—they are not equal, their very inequality proves it. Some must rule and some be ruled; for some life must be pleasanter and more full of meaning than it is for others; some men must be strong and some weak, just as some women are beautiful and some ugly. It is not their fault; it is their misfortune, and they suffer for it. Which brings me to the principal objection I have to your proposal. It is this: I believe that we shall find it a mere waste of time to invite the nations of the world to sign a treaty for complete disarmament; they distrust each other, and that distrust has proved too often to be well-founded. The long centuries have made them jealous, sullen, watchful. There is only one motive which can make them sign—fear—fear of what may happen if they do not!"

"I have already said," remarked Vard, "that I am ready to apply compulsion, should it be necessary."

"But you are finite," Pachmann objected, gently. "You are but an individual, whose life may end at any moment; while, as you yourself have said, this plan of yours will take long years, generations perhaps, to consummate. To perfect it will test the best intellects of the world. Once begun, it must be carried through. Do you think it wise to imperil its success by making it depend so largely on yourself? Besides, what would be easier than for an unwilling nation to suppress you? A pistol-shot, a blow with a knife, and the brotherhood of man tumbles to pieces."

"What is it you propose?" asked Vard, who had listened to all this with growing impatience.

"I propose that, instead of so great a task being assumed by an individual, it be assumed by an entire nation, which shall pledge its honour to carry it to success."

"And this nation," said Vard, sarcastically, "should, of course, in your opinion, be Germany."

"I admit," replied Pachmann, with dignity, "that I consider Germany best-fitted to carry out the plan. I think you will agree with me that, if a single nation is to undertake it, it must be one of the five great nations. In world-politics, the others are negligible. Well, let us see. France, a nation of peacocks, excitable, impressionable, easily angered, making much of trifles, jealous of their dignity, a dying nation which grows smaller and weaker every year. England, also a degenerate nation, soaked in gin, where a hundred thousand men are unemployed, and where no better remedy for pauperism can be found than universal pensions, which only make more paupers. Russia, an ignorant nation, whose ruling class is composed of men without morals and without ideals—thieves and drunkards and vain braggarts. There remains America, and at first glance it might seem that here is the nation to be entrusted with the great work. But, after all, it is a nation of money-grubbers, ruled by a money-trust, where wealth is worshipped as no other nation worships rank; a nation without culture, without experience in world-politics, without self-control, loudly vain, inept, wasteful, childish—a nation, in other words, at the awkward age between youth and manhood.

"Let us now turn to Germany. I speak only what is within the knowledge of all intelligent men when I say that in manufacture, in agriculture, in the administration of government, in science, in literature, in music, in general culture, Germany is first among nations. Some may quarrel with her military policy, but none can question her progress or her achievements. All other nations come to Germany to learn. This is not exaggeration; it is calm statement of fact. I firmly believe that to-day, intellectually, morally, materially, Germany is the first nation in the world. And it is altogether fitting that she should be chosen as the leader of the world and arbiter of the affairs of all nations."

Vard had risen from his seat during this discourse, which was delivered with emphasis and conviction, and paced nervously up and down the cabin, his face drawn, a deep line between his brows. And Pachmann watched him curiously. So did the Prince watch him, wondering what he would reply. He did not leave them long in doubt.

"In answer to you, Admiral Pachmann," he said, speaking slowly and carefully, as though weighing every word, "I can only say this: I do not dispute Germany's great achievements; no man can do that. It is probably true that in science, in learning, in general culture, and in efficiency, she is, as you say, first among nations. Her people are a great people—but it is not them you represent. You represent an hereditary monarch, the only one in western Europe who still speaks of the divine right of Kings—a man who would be an absolute autocrat, if he dared. Supporting him is a powerful circle of hereditary nobles, whose interest it is to increase in every possible way the prestige and power of the throne. At their command, ready to do their bidding, is a magnificent army and a great navy. Did your Emperor possess my secret, he could at once declare war against Europe; he could conquer Europe, and every German Prince would be a King. My whole purpose would be warped and debased. Instead of universal brotherhood, we should have a single ruling house, imposing its will on millions of conquered peoples. Instead of love, we should have world-wide hate. And I say to you plainly, sir, that, rather than that such a thing should come to pass, I will destroy my invention and leave the world as it is."

Pachmann had listened intently, nodding his head from time to time, or puckering his brows in dissent.

"Have you yourself no ambition?" he asked. "Is there nothing in the way of honour or position which you desire for yourself or for your daughter?"

An ugly sneer curled the inventor's lips.

"Bribery—I expected that!" he said. "No, there is nothing—nothing but the consciousness that it was I who ended war!"

"And your refusal of my first proposal is absolute?"

"Absolute. I consider it insulting."

"You will not modify the terms of your proposal?"

"Not in any essential detail."

"And if Germany refuses, you go to France?"

"That is my intention."

"Very well," and the Admiral rose, too. "The situation is, then, quite clear to us; there is no longer any shadow of uncertainty. It is for us to assent or to refuse. Our answer will be ready for you in a very short time."

Vard bowed, his face very pale, and stepped to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob.

"Remember one thing," he said; "it will be better for Germany to lead than to follow; your Emperor will find the head of the procession much more to his taste than the tail of it. And it will be for him either the one or the other! Good night!" and he opened the door and was gone.

Pachmann stood with clenched fists and flushed face staring at the spot where Vard had stood.

"Fool! fool!" he muttered. "That he should think he could defy and threaten—and still escape! A great fool, is he not, my Prince?"

The Prince awoke, as from a dream.

"Great, at least!" he said.



CHAPTER XX

THE PRINCE SEEKS DIVERSION

In spite of his protestations and the confident manner he assumed when with the Prince, Pachmann was, as a matter of fact, exceedingly disturbed. It was true that for an individual as humble as Ignace Vard to hope to stand against the might of the German Empire was absurd in the extreme; but perhaps Vard was not alone. Perhaps back of him there was some person or some power at which even Germany would pause.

Two incidents had been distinctly disquieting: the wireless from Lepine and the assault on Schroeder. The thing which filled Pachmann with dismay was not so much these incidents themselves as the degree of knowledge they indicated. Why did Lepine think Vard was on the boat? How had he connected the inventor with the disaster at Toulon? How had the person who assaulted Schroeder known of the conference in the Captain's cabin? How much had he heard of that conference? What use would he make of what he had heard? In a word, did France suspect what had happened to La Liberte, and, if so, how much did she know?

A hundred times Pachmann asked himself these questions, and a hundred times tried to find some answer to them other than the obvious answer. He tried to persuade himself that Lepine had not connected Vard with the Toulon disaster, but was searching for him for some other reason; he tried to make himself believe that the assault on Schroeder was merely the result of a seaman's quarrel; he told himself over and over again that France could not suspect, that it was impossible she should suspect. But he could not convince himself. Always he came back to the obvious fact that, if Vard was wanted at all, it could only be for the affair at Toulon, and that the man who had taken Schroeder's place at the door of the Captain's cabin could only have done so because he wanted to hear what was passing on the other side of it.

Always, with sinking heart, Pachmann came back to this point; and at such moments he wondered whether, after all, the Emperor would not do well to lay aside his personal ambition, to consent to Vard's proposal and assume the leadership of this great world-movement, in all good faith. Surely that would be glory enough! Better, as Vard had said, to lead than to follow; better to stand proudly forth at the head of the movement than to be whipped into place in the rear. What humiliation!

And suppose Vard should manage to escape; suppose he should really get into touch with France! Pachmann, closing his eyes, could see a great fortress leaping into the air; could hear the thunder of the explosion which destroyed a dreadnought! It was a dangerous game he was playing, and yet, to accede to Vard's proposal meant the loss of Alsace-Lorraine, meant the eventual abasement of the Hohenzollerns, the rise of socialism. No, he could not consent; he had not the power to consent; he had his instructions, precise and clear, from the Emperor himself. At any cost, that power must be his, and his alone!

At any cost! Pachmann drew a deep breath. He knew now what the cost must be. Well, when the moment came, he should not hesitate!

Sunday morning found Pachmann beside the assistant purser in the library of the second-cabin, beginning the inquiry there. It was even more drastic than it had been in the first, and the victims emerged from it heated, angry, and with the fixed determination never again to travel by a German boat. Neither the Captain nor the purser could vouch for any of the undistinguished people here, and so each one of them was most thoroughly examined. Even those with passports did not escape. Pachmann examined all such documents minutely, compared the written description point by point with the appearance of the passenger, and asked many questions to satisfy himself that the person presenting it was really the one to whom it belonged. Yet, in spite of all this, passenger after passenger came through the ordeal successfully.

As the list was called alphabetically, it was soon the turn of M. Chevrial. He approached the table with confidence, produced his passport, and sat down to await such questions as might be asked him. Pachmann glanced at the Frenchman and his eyes narrowed with anger, for this impudent person appeared to be amused at the proceedings! Then he picked up the passport and studied it carefully. It had been issued by the French government two months previously, as a renewal of a former passport, to Andre Chevrial, wine-merchant, of 18 Rue des Chantiers, Paris; whose appearance and physical characteristics were described in detail. Pachmann compared the items of the description point by point with the man who sat smiling so shamelessly before him, answering the purser's questions in an ironical voice. The very fact that the man was so typically French and so plainly amused created in Pachmann's mind a flair of suspicion which dilated his nostrils and narrowed his eyes. But the passport was in perfect order, and Chevrial's answers came without hesitation.

"You are a wine-merchant?"

"Yes."

"How long have you been in that business?"

"More years than I care to remember."

"That is not an answer."

"Let us say twenty years, then."

"Always at Paris?"

"The time before that did not count."

"Then you have not been always at Paris?"

"Heavens, no! First at Bordeaux; but for ten years at Paris."

"You are well-known there?"

"Ask my neighbours in the Rue des Chantiers; or cross the street to the wine-market and ask any one there if he knows Andre Chevrial! Well known? But yes!"

"Is this your first visit to America?"

"Oh, no; nor my second. But it is my first trip on a boat of Germany, and will be my last. On the French boats, my compatriots know me. They do not annoy me with all these questions."

It was Pachmann who asked the next one.

"How does it happen that you travel this time by a German boat?"

Chevrial shrugged his shoulders.

"Because there was no French one. It is necessary that I be in New York on Wednesday. There was no other boat that would arrive in time. Had there been, I would have taken it."

"So you do not like German boats?"

"I like nothing German," said Chevrial, calmly. "Least of all, this inquisition, which, it seems to me, demands some explanation."

"It is for the immigration bureau," the purser hastened to explain. "The American laws are very strict."

"The laws do not concern me. I am not an immigrant. I am merely one who goes on business and who returns. My papers are in order, are they not?"

The purser was forced to confess that they were.

"Then," said Chevrial, returning them to his pocket, "if there are any further questions to be answered, I will wait until I get to the pier at New York to answer them. I shall at least have the pleasure of talking to an American!" and he got up and left the library.

Pachmann was furious; but he had no excuse for holding the fellow, nor for examining his baggage. In search of such excuse, he despatched a wireless to the agent of his government at Brussels, directing him to secure at once all the information available about Andre Chevrial, 18 Rue des Chantiers, Paris; and that evening a very polite gentleman called at the house in question. It was a tall, hideous house, with a cabaret on the first floor. To its proprietor the visitor addressed himself. But yes, the proprietor knew M. Chevrial, a merchant of wine, who had honoured his house for many years by occupying an apartment on the third floor. His present whereabouts? Ah, the proprietor could not say; M. Chevrial made many journeys in the interests of his business; he was absent at the present time. It was the season of his annual trip to America; perhaps he was now on his way thither. He had left no address; but if monsieur wished to write a letter, it would be sent forward as soon as an address was received.

The visitor declined to write a letter, but left his card—or, at least, a card—to be given to M. Chevrial upon his return. Then he took his leave. And the proprietor stuck the card in the frame of the clouded mirror back of the bar, chuckling to himself.

A report of all which Pachmann duly received by radio next day.

* * * * *

The Prince, meanwhile, was finding the voyage wearisome. He was not a difficult person to amuse, and he was very expert in the art of killing time; he had done little else since he emerged from the nursery; but here on shipboard he possessed none of the implements with which he usually carried on that slaughter. He could sit in the smoking-room with a tall stein before him, he could stroll about the deck and stare at the sea, which he did not care for; but there was no one to talk to. His subjects of conversation were limited, and all of them were associated more or less with his princely character; here, where, for the first time in his life, he found himself divested of that princely character, he was completely at a loss. The trouble was that he had no sense of humour. So he found it impossible to gossip with plebeian unknowns, or engage in card-games with irreverent middle-class artisans and drummers. He could not even carry on a flirtation with any of the pretty girls! He had attempted it with one of them; but, after a very few minutes, she had left him with her chin in the air, and an exclamation which sounded singularly like "Beast!" What is gallantry in a Prince, is impertinence or worse in a less-privileged person!

Remember, our Prince was merely a good-natured, thick-headed, young man, who had always been compelled to take himself seriously, whose life had been ordered for him from day to day to its minutest detail; who had never been called upon to use his wits in earnest. There had always been some one to do his thinking for him; there had always been the routine of drill and study to fill a certain portion of every day; and there had always been the fearful delight of escaping from his father's eye and roaming the streets of Berlin in quest of adventure. But here on shipboard, the day was twenty-four empty hours long, and even Pachmann had deserted him, to spend his time asking the passengers interminable questions, whose purpose the Prince could not in the least understand.

So, on this Sunday morning, having attended the services in the dining-saloon for want of something else to do, and kept awake with great difficulty, having smoked innumerable cigarettes, having snubbed an American whose manner was distinctly fresh, having tramped up and down the decks, and looked into the library to find Pachmann still asking questions, questions, the Prince made a sudden daring resolution, walked quickly forward, ascended to the first-class promenade, and looked about for Ignace Vard. With the inventor, at least, he need wear no disguise, and he simply must talk to somebody. Besides, the inventor's talk gave him a good feeling at the heart—the feeling that he might really some day do something worth while! Pachmann would disapprove, of course; but who was Pachmann? A younger son of the inferior nobility! He must remind Pachmann of that, some day, for he seemed to have forgotten it since the Emperor had taken him up!

He found the object of his search leaning against the rail, far forward, staring ahead at the path the ship was taking. Vard greeted him with evident pleasure.

"You have come to arrange for the final conference?" he asked.

The Prince shook his head.

"I know no more of that than you," he said.

"But I was assured that your decision would be made at once. My plans depend upon your answer. This is Sunday. On Tuesday we reach New York."

"I know nothing," repeated the Prince. "I have not spoken with the Admiral to-day—indeed, I have scarcely spoken to him for three days. On Friday and Saturday and again to-day, he has spent every moment in an examination of the passengers."

"Why does he do that?" asked Vard quickly.

"I do not know."

Vard glanced at the Prince, and his face softened a little.

"So you have been left to amuse yourself," he said, "and, not succeeding very well, have come to me? Is that it?"

"Yes," said the Prince; "I must talk to some one, and I find that I cannot talk with people who do not know who I am. The men offend me, the women I offend."

This time there was genuine friendliness in Vard's face.

"Poor fellow!" he laughed. "Well, I have never acted as court jester, but I am willing to try. Come with me."

He led the way back along the deck and opened a door.

"This is my room," he said. "Come in. You should feel more at home here than I do, for it is an imperial suite."

The Prince assented gravely, entered, and the inventor, his eyes dancing, closed the door.

"Sit down," he said. "You may smoke," and he proceeded to roll himself a cigarette. "This is your first visit to America? Yes? The first thing you will notice is that not many Americans smoke cigarettes. Until quite recently, the cigarette was believed to be in some mysterious way debauching; no one but degenerates were supposed to use them. Even yet that is the prevailing opinion outside a few of the large cities."

"Most curious," commented the Prince, and blew a smoke-ring toward the ceiling.

"Outside of New York, which is fairly cosmopolitan, there is the same prejudice against wine or beer, or any fermented or distilled spirit. No public man, no teacher in a public school or university, no physician, no professional man—no man, in a word, who depends upon public opinion, public approval, for a livelihood—would dare sit at a table on the sidewalk and drink a glass of beer or a liqueur. He might do it once, and escape with the reputation of an eccentric; but to do it twice would be to brand himself as not trustworthy."

"Astonishing!" said the Prince. "Do you speak seriously?"

"Very seriously. Some of the states have even enacted laws that no alcoholic beverage of any kind may be sold within their borders."

"But," stammered the Prince, staring, "do you call that liberty? No country of Europe would dare enact such a law!"

"No; it is not liberty; it is government by the majority. The wonderful thing, the astonishing thing, the inspiring thing about it is that in this, and in all other questions, the minority accepts its defeat without grumbling and makes the best of it. That is the great lesson which the United States has for the remainder of the world. And, to preserve itself, it need keep no class in subjection, need draft no man for service in its armies—for it is a government founded on the consent of the governed."

He was silent a moment, considering, perhaps, how to use most wisely this opportunity.

"Let us apply that principle to the other countries of the world," he went on, at last. "Let us suppose that the people of each country were asked to choose freely for themselves their form of government. How many of the present governments would stand that test? Do you think the government of Germany would?"

"No," said the Prince; "I suppose not. Our people are all socialists, so my father says. But they are not fit to govern."

"Whose fault is that? Have you tried to make them fit? Besides, their fitness or unfitness has nothing to do with it. It is their country; let them grow fit by experience. But I believe they are fit. How many of your great men have come from humble life?"

"Oh, a great many, I dare say!" answered the Prince, impatiently. "But a body needs a head. It must be governed by a head, not by a stomach!"

"Ah," said Vard, "but, as a matter of fact, every body is governed by its stomach. Not till the stomach is satisfied does the head get a chance. And, to govern wisely, the head must be a part of the body, not something distinct from it. How is it to govern wisely, if it is not always in close touch with the body, aware of its every need? It is only when the head is distinct from the body that it lets the body starve and wastes its substance on vain and unnecessary things."

"I suppose," said the Prince with a smile, "that you refer to our army and navy."

"To the army and navy of every nation. Could the people choose, how many battleships would Germany build next year?"

The Prince shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

"How can I answer such questions? I do not know. But I do know that I have been born in a certain position, and that I must maintain it."

"Why?" Vard demanded.

"For the sake of my honour, and the honour of my house," answered the Prince, simply.

"Honour!" cried Vard. "What do Princes know of honour? Is it honourable to live on the sweat and suffering of others, and to make them no return? Is it honourable to be supported by the toil of women and children, whose men you have taken for your army? Is it honourable...."

He stopped suddenly, for the door had opened and a girl came in. She stared first at one man and then at the other, evidently astonished by the few words she had heard. Then she turned to withdraw. But Vard stopped her.

"Don't go, my dear," he said. "Allow me to present you to a Prince of the House of Hohenzollern! Prince, this is my daughter, Kasia."



CHAPTER XXI

ON THE EDUCATION OF PRINCES

The Prince sprang to his feet and bowed low over the hand which Kasia, after an instant's startled hesitation, had extended. Her father watched the scene with an amused face.

"You arrived most opportunely, my dear," he said. "The Prince, being bored, as is the way with Princes, came to me, asking to be amused. I started out to amuse him by describing certain strange customs of America, which he is about to visit for the first time; but I was soon on my hobby again, and instead of amusing him...."

"You were abusing him!" said Kasia, laughing. "At least, it sounded so to me!"

"Oh, not at all!" the Prince hastened to assure her. "I found what he was saying most interesting."

But Vard, with that quick change of mood characteristic of his temperament, had already decided that it was not worth while attempting to rear any seed from this barren soil. The Prince's intentions were good enough, but they would come to nothing—his father would see to that!

"Nevertheless," said Vard, "I am not an amusing companion. I am too much of a preacher, and no one likes to be shouted at. I would suggest, Kasia, that you take His Highness for a tour of the deck."

The Prince's face brightened wonderfully.

"That would indeed be kind!" he said.

Kasia looked at him with a little smile. Perhaps the opportunity of talking familiarly with royalty piqued her, good democrat as she was; and then he was not a bad-looking fellow. One could see that he was not brilliant, but he at least looked clean and honest.

"If you really wish it," she agreed.

For answer, the Prince sprang to the door.

"One moment," Vard interposed. "You will remember, Kasia, that the Prince is incognito, and that, under no circumstances, must you betray to any spectator or listener who he is."

"I will remember, father," said Kasia, and followed the Prince out upon the deck.

Wherefore it presently came to pass that Dan Webster, staring gloomily down from the after boat-deck upon the flitting beauties of the first-class promenade, beheld the lady of his dreams strolling beside a well-set-up young fellow, whose face seemed vaguely familiar, and in whose conversation she was evidently deeply interested—so interested that she finally climbed with him to a seat on the upper deck; and when they sat down, Dan saw that the young fellow sat very close indeed. He stared incredulously for a moment longer, and then turned angrily away, to bump violently into M. Chevrial, who was also staring.

"What the...." Dan began, and then stopped himself. What right had this Frenchman to stare? But then, for that matter, what right had he?

Chevrial was the first to recover himself. He glanced at Dan's disturbed countenance, and smiled as he read his thought.

"I was surprised to see a passenger of the second-class so calmly enjoying the privileges of the forward deck," he explained. "If any one was to enjoy those privileges, I should have expected it to be you."

"So he is second-class! I thought he looked somehow familiar. I remember, now."

"He is undoubtedly the same young German we have seen so frequently pacing this deck," said Chevrial. "I fancy he is lonely and desires amusement. But, at the same time, I fear that you lack enterprise, M. Webster. That is not like an American."

Dan flushed, and started to stalk away, but Chevrial laid a hand upon his arm.

"No, do not be angry with me," he said. "I beg your pardon. It will please you to know that that young man yonder is one of the very few persons on this boat with whom Miss Vard may talk unconstrainedly. No doubt that is why she appears so glad to see him."

With which cryptic utterance, M. Chevrial went below, and left Dan to bitter meditation.

* * * * *

Kasia, meanwhile, was enjoying herself immensely.

"Now," she said, leaning back in the seat, after a glance around to assure herself that there was no one within hearing, "please tell me what it is like to be a Prince. Don't you get frightfully lonesome, sometimes?"

"That was my complaint to-day, when I sought your father."

"Yes—but always, always to stand apart from other men and women, so that they never dare be quite open with you; quite frank with you; always a little in awe of you."

"Not many people I know are in awe of me," said the Prince. "Most of them consider me something of a fool—they do not say so, but I can read it in their faces. My father thinks me a total fool, and does not hesitate to say so."

"He must be a terrible man!"

"He is," agreed the Prince, with conviction.

Kasia looked at him to see if he was in earnest; then turned away her head for an instant, until she could control her lips.

"How does it happen that you speak English so well?" she asked.

"My father required it. It is the result of many weary hours, I assure you. However," added the Prince, "I ought not to complain, since it has secured for me the present hour."

It was the first time Kasia had ever been made the mark for a royal compliment, and she flushed a little in spite of herself.

"It is nice of you to say so!" she murmured. "So you have had your bad times, too?"

"Bad times, Miss Vard! Why, the life that I have led has been a dog's life. There were so many things that I must know—that we all must know—so many things we must not do. I have often gazed from the windows of the palace and envied the boys in the gutter!"

"Not really!"

"Oh, not really, of course. I would not change. What I envied them was their liberty, their freedom to come and go as it pleased them."

"But since you are of age?"

"Even yet, each moment must be accounted for. I am now a lieutenant in the navy, and am supposed to employ each hour profitably. My father is a very great man; there are few things that he does not know; and he expects his sons to know as much. Even of pictures, which bore me; even of music, which distresses me. Everything is arranged. At such a time, I am to be with my ship; again, I am to attend the opera; again, I am to be present at the opening of a museum; again, I must listen to a long address which I do not understand. I may not even choose my own wife. All that is arranged."

"But no doubt," Kasia suggested, amused at his forlorn aspect, "your father will choose more wisely than you would."

"I do not know," said the Prince disconsolately. "I fear that he will consider birth and position of more importance than youth and beauty. Besides, there are some things a man likes to do for himself. My poor sister, now...."

He stopped, for, under the stimulus of Miss Vard's sympathy, he found himself about to betray a family secret.

"Yes, I can understand that," said Kasia, with more tenderness than she had yet shown. "You don't mind my talking frankly to you?"

"I love to be talked frankly to," protested the Prince.

This was very far from the truth, only the Prince didn't know it. What he really loved was flattery disguised as frankness. In this, he resembled most other human beings.

"Well, then," said Kasia, "if you don't like it, if you find it intolerable, why don't you cut and run?"

"Cut and run?"

"Yes; go away by yourself, be a free man, and marry the woman you love. For of course there is such a woman?"

"Oh, yes," and the Prince thought of the blue-eyed daughter of the shopkeeper in the Friedrichstrasse, just off Unter den Linden; however, he had never thought of marriage in connection with her. "But suppose I should do that," he added, "how should I live?"

"How do other men live? By work!"

"But that would be a disgrace!"

"Disgrace! It isn't half so disgraceful as to live by the work of other men."

"Your father said something of the same sort to me. But I fear that neither of you understands. A Prince cannot do such things."

Kasia threw up her hands.

"So we come back to the beginning of the circle!" she cried.

"Besides, my father would not permit it," added the Prince.

"Aren't you of age?"

"Yes—but he is the head of the family. He would have me brought home—from the end of the world, if necessary—and then I should be confined. Even my elder brother is sometimes confined—separated from his wife, from his children, permitted to see no one."

"Poor Prince!" said Kasia. "So you are a slave, like the rest of us—rather worse than the rest of us, indeed! Is there nothing you can do?"

"Very few things," said the Prince, beginning really to pity himself. "You see, there is always my family to consider—nothing must be done to injure its position or to make it less popular. Even my father very often may not say what he thinks or do what he wishes."

"So he is a slave, too!"

"Yes, in a way. And it grows worse and worse. Often, in private, he laments the old days when a King was really a King, who was venerated and whose word was law. He grows very angry that at each election there are more socialists. He says that the only hope for the country is in a great war: it is for that he prepares."

"How would a great war help?"

"Oh, in face of the common danger, our people would forget their differences, for they all love their Fatherland; they would fight shoulder to shoulder. And then, when it was over, they would all be mad with joy over the victory, and there would be new provinces to add to Germany, and an immense tax levied on our enemy to pay the expenses of the war, so that our own people would not have to bear that burden. It would all be just as it was after the war with France, when every German was filled with patriotism, and when Germany for the first time became one country. Our house would again be well-beloved, its authority unquestioned."

"But suppose you are defeated?"

"We shall not be defeated," said the Prince, calmly. "There is no nation in the world which Germany could not defeat—except, perhaps, the United States. But we shall not go to war with the United States. England will be our foe, and you will see her tumble to pieces like a house of cards. She is but an empty shell."

Kasia sat for a moment considering all this. If this was really what was in the Kaiser's mind—and she could scarcely doubt it—it was foolish to suppose that he would consent to disarmament.

"What you have told me is not very promising for universal peace," she said, at last.

"There can be no universal peace until we have humiliated England," replied the Prince. "That is the belief of all good Germans. The conflict must come soon, and we strain every nerve to prepare for it. I betray no secret when I tell you this. All Europe knows it. England struggles also to prepare, but we are always far ahead. When we are quite ready, we shall strike. Then, after we have won, after we have established Germany as the first nation of Europe, we shall be ready for peace. But we must have one more great victory. The welfare of our house demands it."

As he spoke, his eyes rested on the top of the companion-way leading from the lower deck, and he started violently, for a face had appeared there—a face which looked at him sternly, almost threateningly. It was the face of Pachmann. Without a word, it disappeared. The Prince turned nervously to his companion.

"Pardon me, Miss Vard," he said, "but I must go. And do not think too seriously of my chatter. I am not admitted to councils of state; I know only what every one knows. We Germans, we have our dreams; but perhaps they are only that."

He arose, opened his lips to say something more, then changed his mind, bowed, and hurried away. Kasia stared after him. She had not seen that silent summons. But he did not look back.

* * * * *

An hour later, Pachmann, with a countenance distinctly troubled, sought out Ignace Vard, who was reading in his room.

"The Prince has been talking to your daughter," he said.

Vard looked at him in surprise.

"I sent them out together," he explained. "I thought perhaps Kasia would amuse him—and be amused."

"Has she told you nothing?"

Again Vard glanced at him.

"No. Has she reason for complaint?"

"I did not mean that. I dare say he behaved decently enough. But he spouted a lot of childish nonsense about German hopes and German ambitions, and I feared your daughter might take him seriously. He is nothing but an ignorant young fool."

Vard laid aside his book and looked Pachmann full in the face.

"The truth comes sometimes from the mouths of fools," he said. "When am I to have my answer?"

"To be quite candid," answered Pachmann, readily, "I am afraid to give it to you on board this boat. I chose this boat because I believed we should be safe here. But there are spies on board; one of our conferences has been overheard—perhaps both of them," and he told of the assault upon Schroeder. "Then again, we must not be seen too much together. I might be recognised; and you are already suspected of having caused the destruction of La Liberte."

"How can that be?" Vard demanded, in a tone which showed that he was genuinely startled.

For answer, Pachmann took from his pocket-book a paper, unfolded it and handed it to Vard. It was the wireless from Lepine.

"That was received last Thursday," he said. "I suppose you know who Lepine is. By great good fortune, I intercepted it, and sent an answer denying that you were on board. It was for that reason you were removed to the first-class and your name kept off the passenger list. But how can he have suspected you?"

Vard shook his head slowly. He was a little pale, and the hand which held the message trembled.

"I cannot guess," he said.

"You have told no one?"

"Told!" flashed Vard. "Do you not see that, unless my great plan succeeds, that action will have been an infamous one? To kill three hundred men in order to assure peace to the world—that may be justified—that may even be heroic; but to kill them wantonly, to kill them and then to fail—that would drive me mad!" He looked at Pachmann, his eyes suddenly inflamed. "And let me tell you this," he added, in a voice of concentrated passion, "if I find that you have deceived me, if I find that you have betrayed me, Germany shall suffer a reprisal that will make you shudder! I swear it!"

Pachmann's eyes were also suffused. In that moment, he literally saw red.

"You threaten!" he cried hoarsely. "You dare to threaten!"

"I warn!" said Vard. "And you will do well to heed the warning! You are playing with fire—take care that it does not consume you!"

Pachmann conquered his emotion by a supreme effort.

"It is foolish to talk in that way," he said. "It is foolish to speak of deception and betrayal. There is no question of either. But we must move cautiously. We must evade these spies. Even you can see that!"

"Here is my last word," said Vard, more calmly. "We shall reach New York on Tuesday. I will await your answer for twenty-four hours after we have landed. If I have not then received it, I shall consider myself free to act as I think best."

A gleam of triumph flashed in Pachmann's eyes.

"I accept your condition," he said, and with a little ironical bow, rose and left the cabin.



CHAPTER XXII

THE EVENTS OF MONDAY

Kasia did not see the Prince again. That ingenuous young man had spent a most uncomfortable half hour with the doughty Admiral, whose language had been both lucid and emphatic, and who had opened the discussion, and spiked the Prince's guns at the very start, as it were, by producing the paper sealed with the Imperial seal.

"I would call your attention especially to this clause," said Pachmann, and placed his finger upon the words, "all members of my family." "It was not placed there by accident, I assure you. You understand its meaning?"

The Prince nodded sullenly, as he handed the paper back.

"Your father," Pachmann continued, replacing it in his pocket, "foresaw that some difficulty such as this might arise. As you know, his confidence in you is not great."

The Prince flushed and opened his lips angrily; but closed them again without speaking.

Pachmann smiled unpleasantly.

"I can guess what you wish to say," he said. "You would remind me that you are a Hohenzollern, a Prince of the blood, a scion of the house to which I, a petty member of the inferior nobility, owe allegiance. That I do not permit myself to forget. But in this affair, by virtue of this paper, I stand in place of your royal father. He would not hesitate to rebuke you, and neither shall I. What was it you were saying to Miss Vard?"

And the Prince, after a moment's inward struggle, repeated the conversation, while Pachmann listened frowningly.

"You have been most indiscreet," he said severely, when the Prince had finished. "How much harm you have done I cannot say—but I must hasten to undo it. I do not understand you. You know how important this affair is—you are a good German!—and yet you go about talking in this fashion! It is enough to drive one mad! If your father learned of it, I fear he would think it necessary to punish you with great severity. I shall not report it—but on one condition: you must give me your word to discuss affairs of state with no one, to make no chance acquaintances, and to see this girl or her father only in my presence."

And so deeply grounded was the habit of obedience, so profound his respect even for his father's signature, that the Prince promised. Besides, he had no wish to spend a year or more in some second-rate fortress; and he resolved to watch himself most warily, until this annoying business was at an end and he was back again in Berlin.

So Kasia saw him no more. She had a little struggle with herself before she finally decided that it was her duty to outline the Prince's confessions to her father, and she was deeply relieved when he waved them aside as of no importance.

"Every one knows," he said, "that Germany dreams of nothing but humiliating England; that is no secret—it has been the talk of Europe for ten years past. But it is one of those dreams which never come true—or go by contraries!"

* * * * *

By noon of Monday, Pachmann had completed his scrutiny of the passengers, and sought an interview with the Captain.

"I have discovered nothing," he said; "absolutely nothing. At one time, I thought that I had the man, but I caused his story to be investigated, and found that it was true. There remains only one thing to be done. At what hour shall we land?"

"That will depend upon the delay at quarantine. Two of our steerage passengers are ill. We may not be able to dock before evening."

Pachmann considered this for a moment.

"In the first place," he went on, at last, following out his thought, "you must secure for me two landing-tickets—one for Vard and one for his daughter. The immigration officers must not see them. There must be no evidence that they ever reached New York."

Hausmann's face clouded.

"That is a very serious offence," he pointed out.

"We must take the risk."

"What will you do about their baggage?"

"I will have it claimed by some one from the consulate."

The Captain hesitated yet a moment.

"I will secure the tickets," he agreed, finally. "A considerable outlay will be necessary."

"You will be reimbursed. Furthermore," Pachmann added, "I will myself explain to the Emperor how greatly you have assisted us."

Hausmann bowed coldly.

"Is there anything else?" he asked.

"You have watched the wireless?"

"Yes."

"It must be watched even more closely. No message in cipher, nor any that is at all questionable, must be sent or delivered. If there are complaints afterwards, the failure can be explained as an oversight."

Again Hausmann bowed.

"And finally," said Pachmann, "I have here a message, which I would ask you to have sent at once."

It was in cipher and a long one, and it took half an hour to transmit, for the wireless man at the Cape Cod station was required to repeat it for verification. Then it was hurried on by telegraph to New York, and finally delivered at the German consulate, where the chief of the German secret service, to whom it was addressed, read it with great care.

* * * * *

Miss Vard, meanwhile, was finding the hours long. The Prince had furnished a slight divertissement the day before; but to-day there was no such relief in sight, and she found herself singularly restless. This was, in part, a reflection of her father's mood, for she had never known him so nervous and irritable. The lines in his face had deepened, his eyes were brighter than ever, and he waved her impatiently away whenever she ventured to address him. Plainly, a crisis was at hand, and, as she saw how her father was affected, she awaited it with foreboding.

She tried to read and gave it up, for she could not fix her attention on the page; she sat for a long time looking at the sea, and then turned her eyes away, for its restlessness increased her own; she went for a walk about the deck, but it seemed to her in every pair of eyes turned upon her there was suspicion and aversion. How glad she was that the voyage was almost ended! It had started happily enough, and then, quite suddenly, it had become wearisome and hateful.

It was inevitable that, at this point, her thoughts should fly to Dan. What a nice boy he was! She would see him to-morrow night—she had promised him that! And before that? Would it be too undignified for her to steal up again to that bench on the after boat-deck—would it—would it precipitate matters? She did not want to do that and yet....

"Good afternoon," said a voice, and some one fell into step beside her, and she looked up and saw that it was Dan. For an instant, she fancied it was only the visualisation of her own thoughts; then she winked the mists away.

"This is nice of you," she said. "I was just wishing for—some one. I was dreadfully bored."

"You were a thousand miles away. I passed you twice and you didn't even see me. If it hadn't been for my newspaper training, I'd have made off to my den."

"I'm very glad you didn't. I really wanted to talk to you."

"Suppose we go up to the boat-deck," said Dan, "where you...."

He stopped.

"Where I what?"

Dan led the way up the ladder without replying; but a gleam of understanding penetrated Miss Vard's mind when she saw him go straight to the bench where she and the Prince had sat.

"It was this way," Dan explained, sitting down beside her. "I happened to be staring down at the forward promenade, yesterday afternoon, when I saw you walking with a tall young fellow, who seemed exceedingly interested in you. Naturally, I was a little curious, as he happened to be a second-class passenger like myself...."

"Second-class!" broke in Kasia, and stopped herself.

"Did you think him a millionaire?" queried Dan, a little bitterly.

"No," answered Kasia, quietly; "I thought him just what he is—an ingenuous young German, not very brilliant, perhaps, but clean and honest. I passed a very pleasant half hour with him."

Dan's face was a little pale, but he looked at her manfully and squared his shoulders.

"I deserved that!" he said. "Thank you, Miss Vard. But it was very lonely, last night!"

Kasia's look softened.

"Yes," she agreed; "it was."

"You felt it, too?" asked Dan, his face lighting up again.

"Certainly I felt it. I haven't dared make any friends among the first-class passengers, and a person can't read all the time! One likes to talk occasionally, no matter with whom."

"Why not slip over to second-class to-night," Dan suggested, "and sit on the bench. The moon is very beautiful."

But Kasia shook her head, smiling.

"I shall have to admire it alone," she said. "We must not be seen so much together—it is not wise for us to sit here. Suppose some one, seeing us together, should take it into his mind to search your baggage, and should find that little package...."

"He wouldn't find it," Dan broke in. "During the day, I carry it in my pocket. At night, I sleep with it under my pillow."

Kasia gave him a quick glance.

"That is splendid!" she said, quickly. "And you don't even wish to know what it is?"

"Not unless you wish to tell me. There is one danger, though. If the customs inspector should happen to run across it, he will want to know what it is."

"Tell him it is an electrical device."

"And if he opens it?"

"That will do no harm. All he will find is a small metal box, filled with tiny wires coiled about each other."

Dan breathed more freely.

"That simplifies things," he said. "From what you said when you gave it to me, I was afraid I might have to knock him down, snatch the package, and make a break for it."

"No," and Kasia smiled. "It would appear of value only to some one who knew what it was. The customs inspector doesn't count."

"And to-morrow evening, say at eight o'clock, I shall bring it up to you."

"Very well. I shall expect you. And now you must go."

Dan rose obediently.

"It will be a long twenty-four hours," he said. "But I feel more cheerful than I did. By the way," he added, turning back, "there's one thing I forgot to tell you. If that other young fellow shows up again, you needn't be afraid to talk to him. Chevrial says he's about the only one on the ship you are safe to talk freely with!"

"Chevrial!" she repeated, staring; "Chevrial said that!"

"Yes," and Dan laughed. "He seems to be the wise guy, all right!" and without suspecting her emotion, he turned and left her. But for a long time Kasia sat there, unmoving, trying to understand.

* * * * *

Dan's evening was not so lonely as he had expected, for, as he sat on the bench on the boat-deck, staring out across the water and thinking of the morrow, Chevrial joined him.

"I do not intrude?" the Frenchman asked.

"Not at all. Sit down, won't you?"

Chevrial sat down, and for some moments there was silence.

"Our voyage nears an end, M. Webster," Chevrial said at last. "To-morrow you will be home again. Perhaps I may see you in New York."

"Where will you stay?"

"I have some friends in the wine-trade with whom I usually stay. The little money I pay them is welcome to them, and I am more comfortable than at an hotel. I do not know their exact address—they have moved since I was last here; but they are to meet me at the pier."

"Whenever you have a leisure evening," said Dan, "call up the Record office and ask for me, and we will have dinner together."

"Thank you. I shall remember. And I should like you to meet my friends. I do not know if you are a connoisseur of wine, but if you are, they possess a few bottles of a vintage that will delight you."

"I'm far from being a connoisseur," Dan laughed; "but I accept the invitation with thanks."

Chevrial's face was bright.

"And when next you come to Paris," he added, "I hope you will let me know. There is my card. A letter to that address will always reach me—we have no telephone, alas! There are some things I should delight to show you—things which the average visitor does not see."

"You are very kind," said Dan, taking the card; "and I shall not forget; though I don't expect to get abroad again very soon. You see, I have to collect a reserve fund, first; and the cost of living is high!"

"Whenever it is; and the more soon, the better I shall be pleased."

"How long will you be in New York?"

"A week—ten days, perhaps. Then I go to Boston, and to Montreal and Quebec, and thence home again. I am glad I shall not have to use a German boat. I do not like German boats—nor anything German, for the matter of that! Which reminds me of a most peculiar circumstance. You may have wondered at my remark with reference to that young man who was strolling with Miss Vard?"

"That she could talk to him without fear? Yes, I have wondered just what you meant by it."

"I may be mistaken—but I should like your judgment. In the library, among the other books, is one which describes the life of the Kaiser and his family—it is put there, I suppose, for all good Germans to read. It is illustrated by many photographs. In looking at the photographs, one of them impressed me as curiously familiar; if I should happen to be correct, it would make a most startling article for your newspaper. But I wish you to judge for yourself. You will find the book lying on the table in the library, and the photograph in question is on page sixty-eight. If you will look at it, and then return here, I should consider it a favour."

Considerably astonished, Dan descended to the library, found the book, and turned to page sixty-eight. Yes, there was a photograph of the Emperor, with the Empress and Princess Victoria; another of the Crown Prince, with his wife and children; another of the Princes—Eitel-Frederick, August, Oscar, Adalbert....

And Dan, looking at it, felt his eyeballs bulge, for he found himself gazing at the face of Kasia Vard's companion.

He told himself he was mistaken; closed his eyes for an instant and then looked again. There was certainly a marvellous resemblance. If it should really be the same—Dan's head whirled at thought of the story it would make!

He closed the book, at last, climbed slowly back to the boat-deck and sat down again beside M. Chevrial.

"Well?" asked the latter. "What do you think of it?"

"If they are not the same man, they are remarkably alike," said Dan.

"I believe they are the same."

"But it seems too grotesque. Why should a Hohenzollern travel second-class, dressed in a shabby walking-suit, and without attendants?"

"There is a middle-aged German with him, who is, no doubt, his tutor, or guardian, or jailer—whichever you may please to call it."

"His jailer?"

Chevrial smiled.

"The Emperor is a father of the old school, and punishes his sons occasionally by imprisonment or banishment under guard. I fancy that is the case here. Before I left Paris, I heard rumours of indiscretions on the Prince's part with a young lady in Berlin, which had made his father very angry. This journey, perhaps, is a penance. At least, it is worth investigating."

"It certainly is," agreed Dan warmly, and fell silent, pondering how best to prove or disprove this extraordinary story. It was decidedly of the sort the Record liked; if he could only verify it, his return to the office would be in the nature of a triumph! But to prove it! Well, there were ways!

A low exclamation from his companion brought him out of his thoughts.

"Behold!" said Chevrial; and, far away to the right, Dan caught the gleam of a light.

"A ship?" he asked.

"No, no; it is the lighthouse on what you call the Island of Fire. It is America welcoming you, my friend."

And Dan, with a queer lump in his throat, took off his cap.

"America!" he repeated, and Kasia Vard's words leaped into his mind. "The land of freedom!"

"Yes," agreed his companion, softly; "you do well to be proud of her! She is at least more free than any other!"



CHAPTER XXIII

THE LANDING

When Dan Webster awoke, next morning, his first thought was that something was wrong, and it was a moment before he realised what it was. The screw had stopped. Instead of quivering with the steady, pulse-like vibration to which, during the past week, he had grown accustomed, the ship lay dead and motionless. He got on deck as quickly as he could, and found that they were anchored in the shelter of Sandy Hook, with a boat from quarantine alongside. Already the deck was thronged with excited passengers; many of the women, in their eagerness to go ashore, had put on their hats and veils and even their gloves. But word got about that there was some sickness in the steerage, and that it would probably be some hours before they could proceed.

Dan took a long look at the familiar land; then he hurried below to breakfast. He had planned his campaign before he went to sleep the previous night, and he was eager to begin it. Breakfast, therefore, did not take him long, and he was soon searching the decks for the man who, possibly, was a son of the Kaiser, but, much more probably, merely a young German who made the most of a chance resemblance.

Dan possessed the aplomb which only years of work on a great paper can give a man; he had wormed interviews from many reluctant and exalted personages; he had asked questions which the other man was certain to resent, often quite justly; he had drilled himself to believe that, when he was on the trail, all mankind was fair game, and that any device which would drag the truth from them was justified—the truth, the truth, that was the end and the justification of newspaper methods! Nevertheless, his heart beat a little faster when, at last, he perceived the object of his search leaning against the rail at the rear of the upper promenade and gazing out to sea.

"I've got buck-fever," he told himself. "It's because I'm out of training." And then he wondered if the Prince was thinking of Germany, and of the lady-love from whom he had been torn.

Nobody else, apparently, had any thought for Germany or for the open sea. Every one had crowded to the side-rails to stare at the land or at the smudge of smoke which marked Long Island, and the stern of the ship was deserted. Telling himself that he would never have a better chance, and that he must finish with the affair before the ship-reporters came aboard, Dan braced himself, approached the solitary and somewhat pathetic figure, removed his cap and bowed respectfully. The Prince, abruptly wakened from his day-dreams, looked up with a start, and met Dan's smiling eyes with an astonished stare.

"I see Your Highness does not remember me," said Dan, good-humouredly. "That is not remarkable, but I was conceited enough to think it just possible that you might."

"No," said the Prince, finding his tongue, "I fear I do not...." He stopped abruptly. "For whom do you take me?" he demanded.

"Surely I am not mistaken!" and Dan looked at him more closely. "No—it is really Your Highness! I cannot be deceived!"

The Prince met his gaze and shook his head, and tried to laugh. But he was not a good liar—his father had long since recognised his unfitness for any diplomatic mission.

"I see it is useless for me to dissemble," he said, in a low tone. "But I am here strictly incognito, and I beg that you will not betray me. Where have we met?"

Dan's heart leaped with exultation. And then a little feeling of shame seized him. It was too bad to have to betray the fellow—but duty demanded it! Perhaps, however, it could be done in a way that would not be offensive. He opened his lips to explain, when a stocky figure suddenly thrust itself between them, and Dan found himself gazing into a pair of irate eyes.

"What is this?" demanded the newcomer, though his voice, too, was carefully lowered. "Who are you, sir?"

Dan felt his good resolutions ooze away at the other's brutal manner.

"I am a reporter," he said.

"What is your business?"

"Gathering news."

"Your business here, I mean?"

"I was just interviewing the Prince," explained Dan, blandly. "The Record would be very glad to have his opinion of the Moroccan situation, of the Italian war, of the triple entente, or of anything else he cares to talk about. Perhaps he could find a theme in the destruction of La Liberte."

He spoke at random, and was surprised to see how fixedly the other man regarded him, with eyes in which apprehension seemed to have taken the place of anger.

"One moment," said Pachmann, for it was he, and he turned and spoke a few rapid words of German to the Prince, who reddened and nodded sullenly. Dan judged from the sound of the Admiral's subsequent remarks that he was swearing; but he preserved a pleasant countenance, the more easily since, happening to glance up, he saw Chevrial leaning over the rail of the boat-deck just above them and regarding the scene with an amused smile. At last, having relieved his feelings, the Admiral fell silent and pulled absently at the place where his moustache had been.

"When does your paper appear?" Pachmann asked, at last.

"To-morrow morning."

"You would not wish to use the interview before that time?"

"No."

Pachmann breathed a sigh of relief, and his face cleared.

"Then we are prepared to make a bargain with you," he said. "It is most important that the Prince's incognito be strictly preserved until to-night. If you will give me your word of honour to say nothing of this to any one until eight o'clock this evening, I, in return, give you my word of honour that the Prince, at that hour, will grant you an interview which I am sure you will find of interest. Do you agree?"

Dan reflected rapidly that he had nothing to lose by such an agreement; that eight o'clock would release him from his promise in ample time to write his story; and the interview might really be important.

"Yes," he said; "I agree; but on one condition."

"What is that?" demanded Pachmann, impatiently.

"That the interview be exclusive."

"Exclusive?" echoed Pachmann. "I do not understand."

"I mean by that that no one else is to get the interview but me," Dan explained.

A sardonic smile flitted across Pachmann's lips.

"I agree to the condition," he said. "And you on your part agree to say no word to any one; you are not to mention the appointment which I will make with you."

"I understand," said Dan. "But, interview or no interview, I am to be released from the promise at eight o'clock."