"I will be delighted to throw any possible light on the mystery of the castle. But first let us leave your brother in peace, to let me know why you came to America?"

Maria Theresa drew the locket from her reticule.

"This is what brought me."

"May I see it?" and the Duke held out his hand, ingratiatingly. "What a charming old antique!"

"No, Carlos. Rather you may see the locket, but not the memorandum in the back."

The Duke registered an expression of polite surprise.

"Memorandum?"

"Yes," and the Princess removed a small bit of paper from the ivory back, swinging it forward to her cousin's hand, on the long silver chain. The nobleman's dark face assumed a ruddier hue, as he caught the trinket in fingers which Jarvis noticed were trembling in tell-tale manner. Jarvis watched the two of them in silence.

"It's a curious old piece of work. And you came all the way to New York to get it?"

"Yes."

"You were fortunate to find it so soon."

"I knew where to find it, Carlos; yet I was almost too late. Think of it, after that dear old family heirloom had lain in an antique shop for nearly ten years—suddenly there came two inquiries for it in a day, two beside my own. The first was from a distinguished-looking gentleman who had called early in the morning, describing it roughly to the old man, urging him to hunt for it. It took an hour to find it—and I happened to come in at the end of the hour. I doubled the offer of a museum collector, and trebled that of the distinguished-looking gentleman. I secured it."

Here, the Princess shot a sharp look into the half-closed eyes of the Duke.

"Who do you suppose could have wanted that locket but myself, Carlos?"

"I suppose," and it was the assumed indifference of a cornered schemer, "it has already occurred to you that I am the 'distinguished-looking gentleman.' Has it, cousin?"

The girl's curiosity piqued her.

"But how did you learn about the memorandum, Carlos?"

"I didn't, cousin. I had not the slightest suspicion that the locket contained an important secret; I doubt it now. I was merely following my pet hobby, in addition to a little family sentiment. I wanted to recover some of those precious heirlooms which had been scattered to the four winds."

"When did you know that this one had been scattered to New York,—on your last visit to the boulevards of Paris?" And Jarvis' smile was as ingenuous as that of a babe of two.

The Duke of Alva scowled. There seemed something uncanny in the sharpness of this American; but he prided himself upon the power of diplomacy.

"I have seldom been in Paris: they are not so much interested in antiques as in very lively moderns, Mr. Ghost Breaker!... But there, you interrupted my thought! You would be surprised to see the collection which I have already rescued, and which, Maria, will some day be yours. You Americans are not noted as really astute collectors, Mr. Jarvis."

"Well, our collectors who don't worry over millions are frequently stung by clever counterfeits. But we laboring men, who must devote all our time to our work, are usually able to tell imitations from the real thing. We are not impressed by 'four-flushing,' your Excellency!"

The Duke scowled at Warren, vainly attempting to divine the meaning of the Yankee slang. But the Kentuckian was impatient: he knew that debates were seldom as productive as labor in a workshop, when it came down to fundamentals.

Carlos was impatiently interrupted.

"Well, so much for the treasure—let's hear about the ghost. Of course I'm certain that there's no connection between the two, in such an aristocratic land as Spain, which scoffs at the American pursuit of the miserable, despised dollar.... What's your private opinion of this ghost? Is he a real, dependable, hell-bent spook, deserving all this press stuff which has been given to him? I've had so much experience with spirits—being a native Kentuckian—that they must be 100-proof to interest me!... Do you really put any stock in ghosts, Duke?"

"Yes, Mr. Warren, I am convinced that there are such things. This world is filled with evidences of the supernatural."

"Then you honestly believe this castle is haunted?"

"I know it!" And the Duke's black eyes sparkled with an intensity which had its effect even upon the cynical Warren Jarvis.

"So you think this ghost is dangerous to encounter—that it is the cause of the mysterious deaths and disappearances in the old castle?"

"I do, Mr. Warren!"

Jarvis whistled meditatively. The Duke looked disgusted; this was so absolutely against all rules of his own conduct with women.

"Well, what do you know about that?"

Warren was again silent. The Duke was tabulating his own material and preparing his next charge of ammunition.

"Ghost is a broad term, your Excellency. There are fifty-seven varieties of them, just like good pickles. They're equally bad for the digestion. What is your particular conception of this particular ghost?"

The Duke answered impatiently.

"There are certain occult forces in this world, Mr. Warren, that science cannot classify or fathom. Some of them are at work in that castle, manifesting their weird powers. A priest might call them demons or fiends—a psychologist might term them, perhaps, returned spirits.... I can't say; but I have been there, and heard their curious warnings and manifestations. There is something definable there, in the periphery of those ancient ruins. A malignant spiritual force lurks within that mediaeval stronghold. While it haunts those musty halls it is madness for any man to expose himself there."

"You could write a good book on it, Duke," observed Jarvis irreverently. "Have you ever seen this ghost?"

"My brother has," interrupted Maria Theresa impetuously. "Twice, to my knowledge, before I left Seguro. So had my father and the others who disappeared from human ken!"

"Good Lord!" and there was a touch of the mock-heroic in the Kentuckian's voice, which escaped his companions.

"According to the family tradition," continued the Princess, "no one has ever seen it three times, and lived to tell the story."

"How do you connect this gentlemanly spook with the treasure, your Excellency?" burst in Jarvis, with a swift look of interrogation which discomfited the nobleman.

"Spook? Treasure? I see no connection. What do you mean?"

"Oh, there is always money when the ghost walks," was the mysterious reply of the American, wasted on the untheatrical Spaniards. "That is the first premise upon which a reliable scientific Ghost Breaker begins his task of investigation."

"I don't know what your experience may have been, Mr. Warren. You are evidently a brave man, but you have yet to encounter a ghost like this supernatural spirit. Things are different in the Old World!"

Warren Jarvis sniffed.

"Huh! Brave? It takes no bravery to fight a coward—that is what the ghost is. It's a coward like every other stealthy, sneaking spirit, afraid to show itself by daylight, in the glare of the sun. I can tell you now that men are not half so afraid of spirits as the spirits are afraid of men. If you face the supernatural, it is more than half beaten to a frazzle, before the fight begins. In my professional career I have learned that ghosts, horse thieves, and peevish wildcats can all be tamed by the same little charm."

The Princess was mystified.

"Charm? What do you mean—a relic?"

The Duke leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with interest.

"What is it?"

"I'd hate to tell you," responded Warren Jarvis. "It's part of my system."

And he forthwith drew out the revolver, caressing it with an unmistakable confidence.

"I had been hoping, Mr. Warren," remarked the Duke, "that you had some subtle method worthy of handling this problem, and justifying the reputation for such work which you say you maintain through America. You evidently propose to meet the forces of the supernatural with firearms.... I may as well tell you that this specter has been shot at before without the slightest effect."

The Kentuckian smiled gently.

"Quite likely, your Excellency. I have seen rifle-fire that had not the slightest effect on a wildcat for the simple reason that the firing was wilder than the cat!"

The Duke of Alva bestowed a pitying glance upon the weapon and its owner.

"I'm sorry for you, Mr. Warren. You will find that the ghost is more real than the treasure."

The Princess arose indignantly. She interrupted, with feminine betrayal of her own hand.

"But the treasure is real, Carlos. Would I have crossed the ocean for this locket unless I knew?"

Carlos looked at her sharply.

"I know I am right, now, Carlos. With the memorandum which I found inside the old locket, anyone, a total stranger, could walk right up to the very stone that hides it."

There was a meaning tone in Jarvis' voice, as he added: "A pretty dangerous paper to have around—look out that somebody else doesn't get there ahead of you."

The Duke shot back a quick answer to the message between the words: "Yes, it is a dangerous paper—if it leads anyone into the castle."

"Well, despite the danger and the threats of—the ghost—I'd go a long way for the fun of unraveling a good mystery with a little spice of danger thrown in."

The Duke scowled, and then with a peculiar emphasis on his words drew a newspaper from the breast pocket of his coat.

"You needn't have taken such a long trip, Mr. Warren. You are leaving behind you, in New York, a very interesting and unusual mystery. The papers are full of the story to-day.... It will interest you too, cousin. You were stopping at the Manhattan Hotel last night, I believe?"

"Yes," said the girl indifferently; but she and Jarvis exchanged eloquent glances.

The Duke was reading with unusual interest, it seemed to Jarvis.

"Why, no..." he began. "I was so wrapped up in my baggage that I really didn't have the time nor inclination to bother with the scandal of the day. Tell us about it?"

The nobleman began to read:

"'Pistol duel in Manhattan Hotel.... Colonel James Marcum, a wealthy and prominent Kentucky sportsman, nearly met death at an early hour this morning in a revolver battle in his hotel room...'"

He glanced down the column and continued:

"'Even at a late hour the police had no clew to the identity of his assailant, except the remarkable fact that the person is still hiding somewhere in the hotel...'"

The Kentuckian interrupted:

"The villain is probably a long way from the hotel by this time if he knows what's what!"

"But they say he couldn't have gotten out without being seen," continued the Duke, still studying the printed column.

"Oh, that's the theory of the reporters. They'd lose their jobs if they ever told the real truth in a criminal case," remarked Jarvis coolly. "Don't believe what the papers say—unless it's nice and about yourself!"

"Well, Mr. Ghost Breaker, what is your own opinion? You are an expert in these matters," insisted the Duke. "This affair interests me."

Jarvis was more than nonchalant.

"He might have escaped in a thousand ways. But such work is not in my line: that's 'gum-shoe' stuff—for plain common or garden detectives."

Nita entered the cabin, and Maria Theresa arose uncertainly.

"I'll call you when I need you, Nita." There was some hidden portent in her tone which Jarvis failed to divine. He decided that discretion was the better part of valor. He rose, and walked toward the door to the promenade deck.

"We are keeping you from getting settled, I fear," he declared. "So, if you'll excuse me at this time, I'll hope to see you at luncheon.... And as for you, Duke, it's a great pleasure to meet your Excellency."

Carlos bowed with military grace.

"Thank you, Mr. Warren. I find you most interesting. I shall be glad to hear more of your remarkable profession. Good-morning, sir."

The Kentuckian turned away.

As Warren reached the deck door there was a knock upon the portal to the cabin passage.

Nita followed him, and then turned to open the second entrance. Two pompous, red-cheeked, red-necked individuals stepped forward, without so much as a "by-your-leave!"

The first one spoke, reading from a smudgy memorandum book.

"You are Miss M. T. Ar-r-ragan?"

The Princess acquiesced.

"You was at the Hotel Manhattan last night?"

"Yes."

"The lock on your bedroom door was broken?"

"Yes?"

The speaker jerked back the left lapel of his coat, displaying a silver badge with great satisfaction.

"I am from headquarters, madame, and I have orders to clear up one or two little matters connected with that affair at the hotel last night."

The speaker glared at them suspiciously.

The chivalry of Spain asserted itself. The Duke stepped forward with spirit, gripping the cane as though it were a cavalry saber.

"Orders—orders—what orders? To break into this lady's private cabin? What headquarters?"

"It seems to me, bo, that you're in a lady's private cabin yourself. I'm from police headquarters, bo!"

"Do you know whom you are addressing, fellow?"

"Say, nix on this fellow stuff. That'll be about all from you."

Maria Theresa interceded with her winsome grace and irresistible smile.

"Yes, Carlos, let me attend to the matter. Won't you come into the cabin, gentlemen, and be seated?"

The two detectives beamed, their bosoms heaved with pride at this unexpected recognition of their importance. They entered, waving away the steward and closing the cabin door behind them.

"We're just been discussing that mystery, Inspector!" observed Jarvis, coming nearer and taking his seat upon the trunk once more. This irritated the Duke, who added: "You are, I take it, one of the 'gum shoes'?"

Jarvis turned toward Maria Theresa, disregarding all properties due to the presence of the aristocracy, and yielded to that nervous twitching of the left eye which expresses such manifold meaning with such minimum of sound!

The detective whirled about, from his scrutiny of the cabin, walking toward the Duke. He fairly howled in the surprised nobleman's face:

"Gum shoe! Say, are you trying to kid me?"

The Duke replied with asperity:

"Well, sir. You are speaking rather loudly. I presume that I have offended you?"

"You presume! I should say you do. That's a hot one. Who are you, anyway?"

"I am Carlos, Hernando y Calderos, Duke of Alva. I have other titles, but they would hardly interest you."

The detective glared at him malevolently, mimicking the crisp enunciation of the nobleman.

"But you interest me, sweetie. Dook of Alver—and then some, eh? Ain't that just too cutey-cutey for any use? Say, I'm used to these dooks and counts—I've been around Peacock Alley at the Waldorf too long not to know 'em by their checkered pants and them canes! Say, Dook! If you was the Archbishop of Canterbury I'd run yer in and take yer ashore, if yer give me any more of yer lip."

Jarvis, bumping his heels against the trunk, smiled with diabolical enjoyment in the face of his Excellency!



IX

CHECKMATE THE FIRST

The detective glared at the nobleman, with fingers obviously itching for action. He sucked his teeth contemptuously, and then turned his back squarely upon the noble countenance. Over his face spread the beatific smile which strong, rough men deem overpowering with a member of the weaker sex.

"As you was saying, lady, before we was so impolitely interrupted, you was in the hotel when this gunplay went on. Did you hear it?"

"Yes, sir, I heard two shots."

"Did you hear anything else?"

"Yes, indeed. I heard a great many people running up and down the corridor, outside my door."

The detective scribbled away in his notebook. Jarvis winked again at the Princess, over the doughty shoulders which were backed toward him. The Duke caught the wink, and pondered over it.

"Did anyone come in your room, miss?"

"Yes. My maid was frightened, poor child. She came in, and begged me to protect her."

"Ah-ha! A-hum! And how did your lock get broken?"

"It was broken when we came to the room. I was foolish not to complain to the management at once, for I might have been robbed by some sneak-thief. I explained all that at the hotel."

"Um ... All right. What about the colored man who came to your room afterwards and carried away a large bundle?"

The Duke's eyes were sparkling now. He was biding his chance to intervene. Jarvis watched him without the flicker of an eyelash.

"That was my servant," explained the Princess, easily. "I sent for him, because I had made a number of purchases too late to get them into my trunk. They are here unopened; you may examine them if you wish."

The detective waved aside the offer: he was nothing if not gallant—if the questioned one were fair enough!

"Oh, that's all right. But what do you know about this, miss?"

He produced a pocket-knife, and walked toward her slowly, examining it with care. The Duke of Alva leaned over his shoulder with absorbed interest.

"This knife has the initial 'W.' How about it?"

The girl reached forward, with a graceful hand.

"Oh, I'm so glad you found it! Thank you for bringing it to me."

"Then it's yours? Who is this party 'W'? Your name is Aragon, I believe."

The Princess laughed.

"I am Maria Theresa of Aragon, you see."

"I don't see. Where does the 'W' come in? I know how to spell, you know, even if I'm only a bull." And he glared pugnaciously at the duke.

"Why ... it isn't 'W'—can't you understand? You're holding it upside down. It is 'M'—standing for my first name: Maria Theresa."

The detective grudgingly handed her the trinket. He looked into his memorandum book again, chewing the end of his pencil.

"Now, there's just one more thing, Miss..."

Carlos could control himself no longer. He caught the officer's arm in a feverish grip, which was as promptly thrown off.

"You will pardon me, but I wish to inform you that this man's name is Warren..." he began.

The detective spun about, and protruded his heavy chin at the Duke.

"Say, who's running this 'Third Degree'—you or me?"

The Duke tried to temporize.

"But, my dear man..."

"Say, cull, I ain't your dear man. Cut that guff—don't dearie me. I'm a big rough fellow, but I've got some gumption. You get out of here."

He gave him a thoroughly plebeian push toward the door.

"Yes, Carlos, do go. Leave us to attend to this matter. These gentlemen are so kind and so sympathetic. I am sure we can finish this better without you."

"I merely wished to point out..."

"You point him out, Jim," ordered the first detective to his assistant. "You hear what the lady says. This is her cabin."

The second official caught the aristocrat with a rude grasp of the velvet coat-collar and shook him as one would a child. The Duke's teeth chattered.

"Out yer goes, and if yer butts in again I'll fan yer. Beat it! Do yer hear? Do yer get me? Skibooch!"

The Duke tried to regain his equilibrium before braving the publicity of the saloon. His voice trembled with passion, as he retorted: "An infernal outrage! I'll report this to his Majesty, the King."

The first detective looked at the jocular Warren Jarvis, who published his third wink, this time in the direction of the big sleuth.

"King! Huh! Roosevelt wasn't elected! Did yer get that, Jim? Well, what do you know about that?"

Jarvis leaned forward, with a sibilant whisper of secrecy:

"Sssh! Gentlemen. Don't be disturbed. He is quite harmless. You heard him raving about a king? He suffers from pernicious megalomania. That's all—nothing more. He has grandiose ideas."

Jim coughed apologetically as his superior officer blinked.

"What does them words mean, Jim?"

"Wheels—bats in his belfry—just plain nutty, Mike."

"You mean he is crazy, mister?"

Jarvis nodded.

"Yes, he is at times. But don't be cross with him, for he has a beautiful nature, except when the ravages of the disease are upon him. You know, he doesn't even like me when he has a spell like this. But he's not at all dangerous. It is just necessary to humor him—he's not to blame—it's the way he was raised."

"Then you're looking out for him?" and the detective looked furtively toward the door, as he reassured himself by fumbling with the revolver in his own hip-pocket.

"Yes, that's my job."

The big sleuth shook his head sadly.

"I'm sorry I had to be rough with him, like that, miss. But you seen as well as I did that he was gumming the game. Why, with some boob detectives that I know, a feller like that might queer the crowd of you—making it look as though you was implicated." He looked into the ubiquitous notebook. "One question more. How do you account for the blood on the knob of the door—from the inside, too?"

The girl was honestly surprised this time.

"Blood on my door? Why—I——?

"I can explain that, Inspector."

"Go ahead, then, Doctor."

"Do you mind?" and the Kentuckian turned politely toward the girl. She shook her head, wondering what could be in his mind.

"You see, that colored man—the one you were talking about—brought the bundle there. He tied it up and, cutting the string carelessly, broke the blade of the knife and cut his hand. That was it, wasn't it? You see the long blade snapped off near the handle."

The detective nodded—not completely convinced.

"Where is this colored man now?" was his question.

It seemed to Maria Theresa that they were getting hopelessly into the toils. She was discouraged, as she glanced at the imperturbable Jarvis. He nodded ever so slightly, and she caught her cue.

"He is in stateroom 729," she said.

"All right. I'll look at him. 729? Thanks, miss. You know, this ain't personal at all. I'm just taking the chief's orders. I'm sorry to bother you."

He walked toward the door with the dignified flat-footed gait which distinguishes the Manhattan sleuth and all others in the world.

"Good-by, miss. Watch that maniac, do! He looks like a bad actor to me."

They were gone, and Maria Theresa sank into a chair weakly. Jarvis energetically sprang to the telephone.

"Hello! Give me room 729."

After a pause he continued: "Hello, hello, hello, Rusty! Yes, Rusty. Damn it all, answer me, do you hear me?"

There was another pause, and the girl began to lose her control again.

"Yes, I know I told you to keep mum, but I'm telling you to talk now." Jarvis knew that every second was precious. "Do just what I tell you and do it quick. Take your knife and cut your left hand.... What?... No, don't cut it off, you damn fool. Just enough to make it bleed a little, and then tie it up with a handkerchief.... Never mind ... That's none of your business! Remember don't answer questions! You're deaf and dumb again."

He hung up the receiver and turned toward the Princess with a newborn laugh.

"By George, blood will tell! You're game. You certainly handled the detective with European statecraft. Then your cousin Carlos broke in at the psychological moment to scatter their gum-shoe wits. It was beautiful comedy."

"Now they believe him crazy!" she answered. "How will that turn out?"

"Nothing could be better. They won't believe a word he says. He'll be crazy before he gets through with it. Could you handle him all right now?"

She nodded abstractedly. She was looking at his hand, which had gone without attention all this time, and which had been adroitly snuggled inside his pocket during the visit of the New York detectives.

"Yes. You must hurry and have your hand dressed before it develops into something serious."

"All right. The ship's surgeon will dress it, with collodion so that you can't even see that it's hurt.... Crazy! Hum! That's funny!" And he left by the door to the promenade deck, with a merry laugh which showed how the nervous strain had lightened, after all these solitary, bitter hours.

There was a knocking on the entry from the saloon, and at her word it opened. The Duke entered, glaring savagely.

"Well!"

"Well!"

"Well—I'm waiting!" he exclaimed.

"Waiting for what, Carlos?"

"For some explanation of all this deceit. Who is this man Warren? Alone with you here in your cabin!"

She raised her eyebrows in beautiful surprise, as she asked:

"Must I tell you all over again? He is a professional ghost breaker, just as he said."

"How did you find such a creature?"

"I met him quite by accident. I knew at once that he was a man in a thousand."

"What do you know about him, Maria?"

"Why ... that he is as well known in America as you are in Spain."

The Duke sniffed.

"Indeed! Well, he will be better known when I turn him over to the police. He will get much of that free advertising which Americans love so well."

"Why, Carlos, what do you mean?"

"I think you know what I mean," and there was a threat in his manner. Just then the large detective thrust his red face into the door.

"It's all right, miss. We're going ashore now in the pilot boat. But you should have told us that your nigger was a dummy!"

Here was the last chance for the Duke. He grasped it, hurrying toward the door.

"One moment, gentlemen, one moment!" and he laughed in Maria's face, confident of his success. "If this person is famous, these gentlemen should know him.... Do you know Warren, the Ghost Breaker?"

"The what?" asked the detective.

"The Ghost Breaker!"

Both men now entered the room, grinning at each other.

"He's off his trolleys again, Jim," said the big fellow to the other.

Jarvis stepped in through the deck door.

"Is this man Warren, the famous Ghost Breaker? This man right here!"

"The guy's dippy all right, cull," remarked the nearest sleuth to Jarvis, who nodded most seriously.

"Agree with anything he says. You know!" he muttered.

The Duke was beside himself with rage.

"Answer my question! Is this man Warren the Ghost Breaker?"

"Aw, Dook, old top, that's all right. Don't worry about it!... Sure he's a ghost breaker, ain't he, Jim?"

"Best bet you know," replied obliging Jim. "He's the prince of all ghost breakers!"

The Duke smote his breast furiously, while the detectives smiled sympathetically into Jarvis' serious face.

"Sacristi! Am I Carlos Hernando, Duke of Alva, to be mocked at by two grinning bull-necked scullions?"

"Whatever you say goes, Dook!" amiably replied the first detective.

A ship's officer appeared on the promenade deck and called through the open door at them.

"Hurry up, if you're going ashore with the pilot, officers."

The two men bowed with their best imitation of gallantry, to the Princess Maria Theresa of Aragon. Nita, standing in the vestibule, sent a melting glance at the faithful Jim, who stumbled over the treacherous cabin threshold.

The superior of the two shook hands pompously with Jarvis, whose left hand was still in his pocket.

"Be kind to the little rascal, Doc. He might not get such good treatment from them Scotland Yard bulls, on the other side. They don't understand human nature like us fellers—they ain't got no education over there. Good-by, Doc! Don't let your foot slip!"

He turned toward the Duke, as he passed through the door.

"You're all right, Dook, old boy, if you do have fits! Ghost Breaker—ha, ha!"

Carlos started toward the other door, with a bound.

"It's not too late. I'll see the captain."

Jarvis, sitting on the trunk, whistled with typical American lack of reverence. As the nobleman turned about, he found himself looking into the barrel of the revolver. A quizzical smile played about the firm lines of the Kentuckian's mouth.

"Don't be in too big a hurry, your Excellency. The captain is apt to be busy just now. And besides, he may not believe in ghosts!"



X

A WAGER WITH THE DUKE

What a curious sea voyage!

The Duke's attempt to warn the captain of the nature of this one particular passenger never eventualized. When the Mauretania had finally left behind all sight of America, Jarvis relaxed his severity.

"You may enjoy yourself, Excellency," he said, as he put away the revolver. "But I would like to speak to you alone. As the representative of the Princess, on a most important mission, I am compelled to look after her interests in a definite manner."

He faced the girl meaningly.

"Will you excuse us for a moment's interchange of pleasantries?"

She nodded, and retired to her bedroom with Nita.

"What do you want, you scoundrel? I know that you are an impostor—a make-believe, and worse!"

"Take it easy, Duke. I'm really not too enthusiastic over you. But this Colt revolver is not a make-believe. I am only going to bother your aristocratic memory with this one little idea—that if there is any reporting to the captain or ship's officers, to interfere with my services as Ghost Breaker for the royal house of Aragon, there is going to be a nice band concert in the public square of your native town—and the special number on the programme will be the 'Dead March from Saul,' with pretty black crepe on the ducal doorknob! Do you catch my meaning?"

"You Yankee pig!"

"I'm not a Yankee—I'm a Johnny Reb, by birth and education. But both Yankees and Rebels acquired a reputation for marksmanship about fifty years ago." The jest died out of his voice. "One whimper from you, damn you, and I'll shoot you as I would a mad dog!"

There was such a savage rasp in that mellow Southern voice that the Duke instinctively dodged backward, as though expecting the first volley.

"We shall see what we shall see!" were his final words. "And if I see you about the cabin of my cousin again,—well, perhaps the officers of this ship may take a hand."

Warren pursed his lips into an ironical grin.

"You know, a member of my profession doesn't take a solemn oath to wait until the remains are resting in pieces: it might not be a difficult task to take up an avocation as well as a vocation. I wonder if I couldn't be a pretty good Ghost Maker? Think it over."

Jarvis, with a simple word of good-bye to the Princess, returned to his own cabin, where he lost himself in slumber. The tortures of his trunk trip were still with him, in aching muscles and strained ligaments.

The girl wondered what had become of him, for it was not until late in the evening that he telephoned to her at the suite.

She was on the deck, listening to the orchestra concert. Nita responded at the 'phone. Jarvis surprised the girl by a voluble discourse in Spanish. He had mastered it in his tropical travels. It was to come in as a life-saving accomplishment before the end of the adventure.

"Tell me, Nita. Have you good eyes?" he curiously inquired.

"Ah, senor, so I am told," was the ingenuous reply.

"Well, in that sense I have my doubts about their goodness ... but what I want you to do, for the sake of your Princess and her brother, is to keep those black eyes eternally watchful. I am expecting some curious tricks from one we know. Let her know what you see—and she will tell me. Remember—keep looking, listening all the time."

Nita promised, and Warren repaired to the lounge, where he observed the Duke nursing his ill-humor over a lonesome absinthe frappe.

Warren did not seek companionship either, upon this journey. He knew too many men in the ranks of the international traders, to dare risk recognition. The great roadway between New York and the European ports has now become a veritable promenade, thronged with travelers: it is no longer a lonely passage.

The great steamship was crowded on this trip, Rusty being in good luck to obtain a stateroom relinquished just before sailing time. With nearly two thousand people on board, it was a floating town—and more than once in the crowded decks and saloons he caught glimpses of men he knew in club, college, or business. He would invariably beat a precipitate retreat. His daily procedure was hermit-like. With the exception of an early morning stroll, alone, on the promenade deck, he took no more chances after that first morning. His meals were served in his stateroom. From the splendid library of the ship he secured ample reading material to while away the time.

At night he spent an hour in walking with the Princess—and they were wonderful moments. Each evening he seemed to grow better acquainted with this unusual woman—finding beneath the surface of courtly reserve a depth of feeling, a breadth of humanity which would hardly have been believable from her calm, almost indifferent manner.

Her education in an English school had internationalized her—her wide knowledge of books, in all the literatures of Europe, her familiarity with the best of art, poetry, the drama and music—had made of her a delightful, ever surprising traveling companion.

The girl was interested in everything American. She plied him with questions about the city, the country, the customs. Her brief stay in New York had been all too limited—her curiosity was only whetted by the brief survey of externals which is all that a stranger may get, without the guidance of an initiate.

To her, America represented a great new universe, teeming with vitality. Compared with the mediaevalism of her own country, the modernity of the States was a wonderful poetic drama of ideals, accomplishment, and goals worth while.

"What do you think of titles, Mr. Jarvis?" asked the girl, one evening. "When you made your recessional into the Middle Ages by taking the feudal oath to me, you were flippant, almost sarcastic: yet by my standards, I could not feel that any man could defend my interests with propriety unless he were of my own people—so, you were adopted with more seriousness than you supposed."

Jarvis flicked a cigarette into the swirling waters far beneath them, as he answered.

"Titles do not appeal to Americans, as a general thing. To the simpler folk, they represent the yoke of the ancient Lion whose mane was cropped in 1776. To the broader folk, they are no more than the marks of family: although I must confess that your worthy cousin would create much fluttering of hearts and waving of ivory fans around Newport and Lennox,—where American hearts, of a sort, and American fortunes of questionable worth are bartered for a tin-plated coronet. But that's the revenge of the Great God of Misfits."

He turned toward her, resting his hand upon the rail.

"You are no different physically, mentally, socially from many of the Southern, Northern, and Western girls I have met in my own country. You are dependent upon the fashions, to bring your charms to the utmost effectiveness." The Princess blushed in the dark. "But, differing from many of them, you do succeed!" he added.

"You are just as human as the fine girls I have met back home—your titled classes correspond with the fine old families of the United States—and we have the advantage over you that by our own endeavor we can change the titles, by our own efforts, without waiting for the death of our loved ones."

His mind turned to his own mother, to whom his successes had been a source of increasing happiness.

"I was only a little knight back home in Kentucky—when I was a tiny chap. As I went into the world, and fought the battles, and won some (after losing more), to my dad and the mother I became a prince.... And the great thing about being a prince—to your family—in a republic, as compared with being a prince in a monarchy, is that a chap must keep on making good in the job, or he'll fail of election, just in the years when he wants it most!

"To tell you the truth, your Highness, America is crowded with 'wealthy families,' 'socially prominent,' 'old Colonial families,' two or three million Mayflower blossoms, and similar Philistines! There are hundreds of clever people who make good annual incomes in our country with their ingenuity in connecting the Joneses and the Browns and the Smiths with Richard the Lion-Heart and Bill the Conqueror, by marriage. In my native State, Kentucky, there are enough majors, colonels, and generals to officer the armies of Europe—and as for judges!... There are enough badges, fraternity pins, cockades, and association medals to keep second-hand jewelers busy for their lifetimes! My countrymen are the most passionate collectors of heraldic certificates and genealogical maps in the world. The instinct for decoration is prevalent—the more obscure the family, the more plentiful the framed diplomas of aristocratic origin on the walls!"

The Princess was unable to follow the cynicism of the speech, but a growing admiration for Jarvis' analytical powers led her to put confidence in his opinions.

"And what harm does it do?" he concluded. "They are titles of universal brotherhood, and peace breeds more American colonels and majors than an international Armageddon. And it is all in the game!"

"And then, you do not have such a disgust for titles and the marks of good family, after all?"

She was almost eager in her inquisition of the vassal.

"Your Serene Highness has no cause for worry: although you will doubtless never need care for any American opinion" (and Warren studied her face, as the fine silhouette was illumined by the nearby deck light), "for in my country a princess is recognized whether she wear ermine robes, or a calico shirtwaist and a ragged skirt. You see,—a republic is at least well illuminated. We're not afraid of the light!... However, I imagine that your title will be changed before another year, and in that case you will have no cause for curiosity!"

The girl's eyes burned as she questioned him.

"What do you mean, Mr. Jarvis? For a vassal, you are decidedly presumptuous. You need not come to court again until you are summoned. Good-night."

And then she turned, as Jarvis maintained a discreet silence, walking rapidly toward the promenade door of her suite. He bade her good-night, without response.

Jarvis remembered an old verse of the greatest balladist of the century:

"For Julia O'Grady and the Colonel's lady, Were both the same, under the skin— And I learned about women from 'er!"

Maria Theresa was not in a mood to see Jarvis for two more days. Instead of trying to win her forgiveness for a wrong—he had not committed—he stuck the closer to his stateroom, where, with the solicitous attention of Rusty, he lived a drone-like and peaceful existence, poring over books. They were not fiction or philosophy—the Kentuckian's interest was in Baedeker and other books on Spain. With the same application which had carried him over the thin ice of college examinations, he had grasped a valuable understanding of the customs and peculiarities of Spain. He gave especial attention to the railroad maps, for Warren was not trusting too implicitly to the permanent humility of the Duke.

That worthy was passing a most disagreeable voyage.

He was naturally of an irascible, dictatorial temperament—accustomed to flattery and adulation. On this return trip to the Continent, the ship's list comprised Americans for the most part. They were in little humor to cajole the swarthy, sarcastic, and unsociable Spaniard. Their minds were too full of the pleasures of the months to come, of plans and frolics in contemplation, to sacrifice their time to this dour personage.

The Duke endeavored to mellow his own discomfiture at Maria Theresa's coldness with numerous visits to the grill. The result was a morning "grouch," an afternoon headache, and a twilight bitterness which kept him permanently aloof from all companionship.

On two occasions he had observed Warren in earnest and apparently friendly conversation with the captain and first officer. He was not aware that it was intended for his own benefit—and that nothing more intimate than the weather was under discussion. But it presaged a prompt information to the "Ghost Breaker" in case he registered his complaint. The Duke's methods of warfare were not of the gallant-charge-against-intrenchments variety. He specialized in the executive ability which directs the activities of other men; and so he bided his time.

The fifth evening out from New York harbor—they were due some time the following day in the Mersey, dependent largely upon the tide and weather—he could stand no longer the evident growth of friendliness between his cousin and her "employed" assistant.

Maria Theresa had forgiven the Kentuckian for his jest—without the formality of an apology, because she was a woman. She had once more yielded to her loneliness, and walked the wind-swept promenade deck to discuss their common subjects.

As Jarvis bade her good-night and stepped into the shadow of the deck, he observed the aristocrat knocking angrily upon the cabin door.

"Let me in, Maria," cried the Duke, in Castilian. "I must talk to you, for your own good."

"I suppose that means my bad," muttered Jarvis. "I'll just smoke another cigarette in the neighborhood, to see how things go."

The Duke was admitted—his conversation in the parlor of the suite seemed to last for half an hour. At last the door opened, and he reappeared. He was talking excitedly at the doorway.

"What I have said to you, I would say before him, were he not skulking in his cabin, afraid of justice. He is a pig of a poltroon!" cried his Excellency. "I wish he were here now, and I would tell it to his face."

The girl replied calmly—so quietly indeed that Jarvis could not distinguish the words.

But he stepped forward, and laid a hand upon the nobleman's arm. Carlos jumped nervously, as though bitten by a snake.

"Here I am, your Excellency. Let's hear what it is you have to say?"

The other swallowed his choler, speaking with difficulty.

"I ... I ... cannot speak on the deck of the ship!" he exclaimed.

"Then come into my cabin again," said the Princess with pardonable asperity. "You may tell Mr. Jarvis your opinion of him now."

Jarvis gave the Duke an ungentle shove, with the result that the troublesome door threshold again intercepted to demonstrate the laws of gravity. The Duke sprawled most unromantically upon the deck inside. He scrambled to his feet, muttering Spanish oaths.

"Dog! If you were my equal socially I would challenge you!" he spluttered.

"If you were my equal physically I would punch your head," was the apt reply of the American. "Now, let's hear this opinion which you were so anxious to tell to my face."

There was a humorous twinkle in the dark eyes of the Princess, and Warren observed, down the passageway to the private stateroom, the smiling face of Nita, the maid.

"Well, Mr. Warren ... I ... merely ... said that I know you to be what you Yankees call a humbug! For some purposes of your own—perhaps to attempt a theft of this imaginary fortune, you are trying to get to Seguro ... However," and at the quiet interest on the face of Jarvis he was emboldened to make his statements more emphatic, "I have my doubts about your honesty in the whole matter."

"And that means what, your Excellency?"

"I don't believe you even intend to risk the chances in Spain. You have duped my cousin, a helpless, innocent girl—ignorant of the sharp ways of American adventurers. You have secured a free passage on this ship, and doubtless an advance payment, to engage you. I would wager anything that you will never see Spain, in this case."

Jarvis smiled ingratiatingly.

"You are a clever student of character. Such men make good gamblers. How much are you willing to wager on this little affair? How much will you bet that I do not appear in Spain?"

The Duke of Alva bit his lip. He had lost too much in recent gamings to afford greater risks just now. But he was a sportsman—particularly did he wish to impress his kinswoman.

"I will wager a thousand pounds of English money,—five thousand dollars in your American rags,—that you will not appear at Seguro in time to help the Princess."

"That's a great deal of money, especially for a hard-working business man like myself," answered Warren. "What are the exact stipulations of this wager? I might borrow the money from the Princess, as an advance payment for breaking the ghost?"

Carlos sneered exultantly.

"Yes, you might borrow it but there is not so much ready money around Seguro. My terms, if you care to know them, are these: I wager the thousand pounds that you will not be at Seguro three nights from to-morrow—the time when we will arrive, according to the train schedule. However, why should I waste talk, with a man, on a bet which is not for tradesmen but for gentlemen?"

"Who would hold the stakes?"

The Duke smiled, and waved a gallant hand toward his cousin.

"Who better than my kinswoman, the Princess of Aragon?"

"Who better?" echoed Jarvis.

He was fumbling with his waistcoat, his back to the Princess and her cousin. Suddenly with a jerk, he brought forth a leather money belt which had been tightly bound about his body, diagonally over one and under another shoulder. The Duke's eyes protruded. Jarvis dropped the treasure "chest" upon the table, while even the Princess evidenced her surprise. Opening the little pockets, which joined each other along its entire length, he began to pile up gold pieces.

"I believe I have the amount handy, your Excellency!" he remarked amiably. "May I trouble you to invite you to produce the money for your own side of the bet? We have a vulgar custom among us in America, of requesting the other man to either 'put up or shut up.'"

It happened that this cash had been carefully drawn from his resources before the eventful last evening at the club. Jarvis had prepared himself for all exigencies: he had not imagined that the first use would be a reversal to the ancient custom of his ancestors in the Blue Grass State,—a bet upon a race. But blood will tell, and here he was in the time-honored custom of the family!

The Duke had not seen so much cash since his last ill-fated pilgrimage to Monte Carlo. He was staggered. But the musical laugh of the Princess brought back the haughty savoir faire for which he was noted!

"Ah ... well ... I understand you, sir," he stammered, with improving volubility. "Very good. As the Duke of Alva, it is not necessary for me to produce the exact cash on the spot. The word of a Spanish nobleman is as good as his bond. It is a wager, and the terms stand."

His black eyes studied the pile of gold coins with sparkling interest.

"Very good,—twice in the same place. The word of a Kentuckian is as good as his bond. I agreed to let the Princess be the stakeholder—she may hold your word, and my money-belt. Your Serene Highness—will you do me the honor?"

And he turned toward the blushing girl, as he handed over the treasure. The insult was not lost on the Duke. But, as Jarvis reached for his hat, he could not resist a final slap!

"Good-night, your Highness. I advise you to be very careful with the lock on the door. The ship lands to-morrow evening, and some villain may break into your stateroom, rob you of the Duke's word of honor and sell it to some enterprising Liverpool pawnbroker. Pleasant dreams! I hope to welcome you to Seguro, your Excellency. Don't spend the five thousand until you get there—remember, the home industries need encouragement."

And he walked out to the promenade deck. The Duke looked at his cousin, flushed a swarthy red at the cynical laugh on her pretty face. Then he, too, hurried out—through the saloon passage. He was anxious to get to his own stateroom to think things over.



XI

WHEN THE SHIP COMES IN

Back in his stateroom Warren was poring with renewed interest over the time-tables between Liverpool, London, Paris, and Madrid. Seguro was on the main line from the French capital to the principal one of Spain.

As he made various penciled memoranda upon a page of his leather notebook, the telephone bell tinkled.

He answered and heard the voice of the Princess.

"Can you see me at once,—on the promenade deck, by my door?"

"Yes. Good-by."

In a few moments he was talking to her in the dark; all the lights of her suite were out. The girl was very nervous.

"I have a paper which Nita found upon the floor—it was crumpled and must have fallen from the pocket of my cousin when he fell. I want to give you back that belt, Mr. Jarvis: for I have heard before of some of the wager-debts of Carlos. It is safer with you. Let me know what you think about this paper, and tell me to-morrow morning. We are due in port late in the evening, you know."

"I will. There may be something in which I wish your help, as well, your Highness. I have made up my mind to reach Seguro before the Duke—for many reasons."

The girl caught his hand impetuously.

"You don't fear for your life before you get there, do you?" she asked softly. "I want you to help me in my castle. That is our bargain—but I know you better than I did when we met in New York. I don't want you to run too big a risk for me until the great trial comes. Do be careful, now."

A thrill sent the Kentuckian's head reeling for an instant at the unexpected touch of those warm, electric fingers. Then he caught himself.

"Your vassal is still ambitious for promotion. But he will not fight the windmills of Spain on an old mule like Don Quixote. He prefers modern methods—such as dynamite, and other pleasant little novelties."

He pressed her hand with a returning warmth, slipped the belt about him, and started down the promenade deck again. Something prompted him to step into the black shadow of a companionway as a figure crossed beneath an electric overhead lamp far forward on the deck.

He waited.

The figure approached noiselessly.

It was the Duke! He was wearing slippers, with felt soles apparently, for his steps caused no sound. Jarvis watched him with a strange misgiving—a fear not for himself. Yet he deemed it wiser to wait for developments.

Up and down the deck paced the nervous, noiseless figure. At last the Duke returned and disappeared from view, through the door by which he had entered the Kentuckian's view.

"I wonder what that meant?" thought Jarvis. "Perhaps he is having a fight with his conscience—just as I have been doing."

And he watched the speeding waves, racing past the great vessel as it seemed—for so steady was the swift advance of the ship that it seemed they were on dry land, rather than the boundless expanse of the depths.

"Here I am—after all my education, all the work of years, to advance myself, running away from my own country—an escaped gun-man, just like an East Side thug."

In the comfortable calm of the shipboard life, with unfamiliar scenes, away from the reminders of his tragedy at Meadow Green, it did not now seem a fine thing that he had done.

Man is not normally a destroyer of his own kind—and his fine instincts were asserting themselves. Yet, after all, despite his vow to his father, this had been actual self-defense.

The other had fired the first shot: he had planned to trap him with a decoy, and in the end it was survival of the fittest.

These thoughts had been frequently in his mind, but he had resolutely driven them from him. Now they were nearing another port, a great commercial cross-ways of the travel world. Here again he was coming within the grasp of the law.

He was not too certain that all had been given up, in that questioning pursuit of the Princess and her party. That broken door lock might yet admit the hand of legal vengeance.

"And that Duke? He'll try to earn that five thousand dollars surely enough now. Well, I'd better be worrying over my own future instead of the dead past. They've said 'let the dead past bury itself, and don't climb the graveyard fence.' That's good logic. But I'd better be looking toward some of the fences ahead. I wonder what is on the paper?"

He returned to his stateroom, where Rusty was dozing in a chair, waiting for the good-night instructions.

Jarvis sat down and studied the fragment. He sat bolt upright, at first with rage and then a growing amusement.

"Look here, Rusty. This Duke is trying to put one over on me," he declared, waking his servant.

"Huh? What's dat, Marse Warren?" and Rusty rubbed his eyes drowsily.

"Do you see what this paper is?"

"Looks like a telegram letter, boss."

"That's a wireless blank, Rusty. It has never been sent. It is the first draft. See—the words are crossed out here, and a sentence changed there. The person who wrote this message tried to save money, by cutting it down, just as we, back home, waste a dollar's worth of time, trying to shorten a telegraph message into ten words. Isn't that reasonable?"

"Yassir. But what does it mean? I don't read no sich langwidge."

Jarvis smiled.

"It's in Spanish. It's addressed to Scotland Yard, in London."

"What's dat? Is it some schoolhouse lot?"

"It's detective headquarters, Rusty. And it is about me."

"About you-all!" Rusty was wide awake by this time, in all truth. He had an instinctive suspicion of anything connected with brass buttons and detectives.

"Yes. It warns Scotland Yard that a man named Warren, on this steamship, is wanted by the New York police, and that I should be arrested before the passengers can leave."

"Who signed dat mizzable contraption?"

"It isn't signed, Rusty. The only person who writes Spanish and who could be so deeply interested in my wickedness is that high and mighty relative of the Princess. He wrote it in Spanish so the wireless operator probably wouldn't notice or understand the message."

"Well, Marse Warren, dis is a ship—dey alluz has ropes. Can't you climb overboard when she is hitched to de wharfboat?"

Jarvis was thinking rapidly. He looked at his watch.

"The detectives will come on with the pilot boat, Rusty, which I understand meets the Mauretania about eight or ten miles offshore. There won't be any chance on the wharfboat. But that gives me a good idea—however, it doesn't seem right to make the Duke of Alva waste his hard-earned coin on wireless messages. There's no free list with Marconi, you know."

Jarvis was walking up and down the stateroom nervously by this time.

"Rusty, in my suitcase is an old suit of clothes which I put in to use, if I had to jump the town on account of Marcum. I thought I might go to the mountains when I went over to the Belmont Hotel. Now, get it out, and those old tennis shoes, and that cap."

"Whaffor, Marse Warren?" The big whites of his eyes were rolling—an indication that Rusty Snow's mind was not as much at ease as usual. "You ain't gonta do nothin' dangerous, is you, Marse Warren? Remember you-all is de oney one left in de fam'ly an' you's got to look after yohself."

Warren placed a kindly hand on the negro's shoulder.

"Rusty, I remember that once when Meadow Green got too small for you, years ago, you started out with a minstrel show—'The Darktown Merrymakers,' they called it."

This leap over the chasm of years was too much for Rusty.

"Yassir," he agreed, after recovering from his surprise. "But, I had to walk back home."

"The thing I want to know, Rusty, is whether you learned how to act when you were with that troupe. Did you?"

"Did I? Marse Warren, dere wasn't no amotion dat wasn't developed in me on dat trip—I started off laughin' and came back like a weepin' angel."

"Ha, ha!" laughed Jarvis. "That's splendid. Now, Rusty, I want to have you do some more play-acting—only turn it around. This time I want you to go away weeping, and we'll come back laughing!"

Rusty was actually offended.

"Ah, Marse Warren. You's pickin' on de ole nigger. Dat was w'en I was a young an' sassy coon. No moh actin' fer mine."

"That's just what you've got to do, Rusty. Obey orders or walk back to New York!"

Rusty blinked and grumbled to himself. Then, as usual, he acquiesced with that famous grin.

"Oh, Marse Warren, I'm game fer anything dat you is. What is de play?"

"I think we can call this one 'Why Dukes Leave Home,' Rusty. Now, you get busy with those clothes, and pack up the suitcases again, so they won't be missed. I'm going on the boat deck, over us, for a little walk and some thinking."

Jarvis was gone for about fifteen minutes. Rusty was beginning to get nervous by the time he had returned. His hands and face were sooty.

"Where you-all been, Marse Warren? Climbin' up on de smokestack?"

"No, just investigating things. Now, after I write this note I will tell you about your acting and give you a rehearsal. I haven't any time to lose, Rusty."

Warren wrote very carefully, tearing the paper up several times and throwing the fragments through the open porthole, for this was an outside stateroom. At last he had finished it.

He smiled over it more than once, finally sealed it, and laid it carefully in the center of the little folding writing-desk, where it was in plain view from the door.

Then he began to disrobe, changing to the rough old suit and the tennis shoes. He dispensed with undergarments and hose.

"Now, Rusty, I want you to go down to the steward of the second cabin and tell him you are very hungry. Get some good sliced meat, some biscuits, and some fruit. Wrap it up in paper—I know it's late, but there's always someone on watch in the pantry. A little American money will go a long way with these British stewards. Hurry back."

As soon as Rusty was out of the room, Jarvis wrapped the money-belt firmly about his body, under the flannel shirt. He placed some gold coins in a handkerchief, which he tied into a knot. Then he slipped out to the promenade deck, walking along its deserted length to the room of the Princess. He tapped on the window of the parlor of the suite until the door opened slightly.

Nita's frightened voice came to him. He answered reassuringly.

"It is Warren. I want to speak to the Princess."

The maid hurried back, and brought her mistress. Warren spoke to her in a whisper.

"I understand the treachery," he said. "Have no fear. I will meet you at Seguro when you arrive. Be surprised at nothing—and take care of Rusty, if he needs it. I intend winning that five thousand dollars even if the Duke's note goes to protest! Good-by!"

She felt his warm, strong hand clasping hers. A great dread came over her—an unusual sensation it was. Yet she said nothing, for some strange reason inexplicable to herself.

She passed a sleepless night.

Next morning the news spread over the ship like wildfire that a first cabin passenger was missing!

All his belongings were in order; his clothes hung up carefully in the wardrobe, just as he had undressed, assisted by his faithful valet.

And that poor unfortunate—how he sobbed and beat his portly bosom over the grief which was racking the loyal African heart. The Duke of Alva went to the captain to inquire about the terrible affair.

"Yes, sir. He is gone. A pleasant, courteous fellow, too. Always minded his own business, never complained. It's too bad. Too bad. And that letter he left—it nearly broke my heart—and I'm a gruff old sea-dog, and have seen many a tragedy in my years as a master!"

The captain wiped his eye with the back of his hand.

The Duke fingered his cane nervously.

"But the note, sir. What did that say? As the cousin of her exalted Highness, Princess Maria Theresa of Aragon, I insist on knowing about this strange person. He was in my cousin's employ. She is entitled to know what sort of a person he was."

The captain glared angrily at the Duke.

"I am the commander of this vessel, sir. On the high sea, I am in supreme control, and know how to run the Mauretania without advice from a bloody Spanish popinjay! I will turn that letter over to the authorities when we land." The captain spluttered indignantly.

"They will meet the boat as the pilot comes on board. I sent them a wireless!" cried the Duke.

"How dare you go over my head, in any matter of discipline on this vessel?" cried the raging commander. "What do you mean by such a thing? I am the one to warn."

The Duke was embarrassed, for he felt the helplessness of his position before this legalized tyrant of the deep.

"I've a mind to think all was not well with this unfortunate young man, from the tone of his letter before he jumped overboard. Not a thing was missing from his wardrobe, but the pajamas he wore—when he ran out on the deck. At least, we find no clothes missing! I'll have something to say to Scotland Yard myself!"

"But the man threatened to shoot me if I spoke to you or any of the officers about him. Now that he is dead I don't fear him."

"Huh!" snorted the captain. "You look about the type of man who wouldn't fear the dead. But what about ghosts, young man! What about ghosts? Did you stop to think of ghosts after people are dead?"

This perfectly innocent question of the seafaring, superstitious mind had a curious effect upon the nobleman.

"Carramba!" he muttered between his teeth, and turned away with a white face. "I wonder what could have been in that letter?"

And the captain glowered at him as he walked nervously down the companionway to his lonely stateroom, to brood in a state of miserable apprehension.

Toward dinner-time the pilot boat was sighted. Several men clambered on board, as well as that official. They sought the captain, and then visited the Princess. Carlos took good care to be in her suite when they came.

Rusty, weeping as though his heart were broken, detailed the sad conversation which he had held the preceding night with his unfortunate employer.

"Poh Marse Warren! Ah'll nebber see 'im again—until de time for de ghost!"

At this speech Maria Theresa observed a nervous twitching about the mouth of her noble kinsman.

Then Rusty became so incoherent in his sorrow that they could get no satisfaction out of him. They studied the circumstances of the case and made their notes, with frequent whispered conferences. Next to Rusty, the Duke was the most unhappy person present, although the Princess showed the strain of her uneasiness.

After the men completed the first quizzing, they repaired once more to Warren's stateroom to seek for other papers.

When they had been gone a minute or so, Carlos waved Nita out of the room. That young person could look otherwise than melting with her black eyes when occasion demanded. This glance was of the sparkling kind which would kill!

"Tell me, my dear Maria Theresa," began Carlos, after some stammering, "did you inform the detectives about the money-belt which he gave to you?"

"Naturally not. That was his affair, and the property passed out of his possession when I became stakeholder, according to the laws of wagers, did it not?"

"Ah, yes. You are a brilliant girl. And a logical one, too. Well, give it to me, then, as the affair is settled. I have several debts which I would like to pay as we pass through London."

The Princess' eyes blazed but her voice was smooth.

"So, my cousin, you claim your wager thus promptly. Are you aware that it would look bad for you if the detectives knew you had bet this enormous sum—and now were the gainer because of his disappearance? Tell me, Carlos, do you know any more than the rest of us about the Ghost Breaker?"

The man rose to his feet, his knees wavering, and then with a supreme effort he steadied himself against the back of the chair. His eyes were distended and the handsome mouth sagging.

"Madre de Dios!" he cried appealingly—all nonchalance and scorn now missing from his mien, "You don't mean to say that you—my blood relative—the woman I adore, could believe such a thing?"

The girl looked away. He could not see the ironical smile on the scarlet lips.

"Carlos, I have said no such thing. But wouldn't it be better to wait until we reach Seguro—as a matter of sportsmanship? Our family has had the reputation of being honorable, even in games and wagers. I am nervous, Carlos. This has upset me more than you can believe. I will never mention the wager again, until you bring up the subject."

And she retired to her stateroom, where Nita dressed the soft dark hair with her accustomed skill—and a smile concealed with difficulty.

The search was ended. The Scotland Yard men scoured all the cabins, from steerage up; they even quizzed the engineers, the stokers, the cooks, the multitude of men and passengers. No clew could alter the sad deduction which they had drawn.

"Well, Captain," said the detective in charge of the case, "it's a sad affair. But he's better off. We'll take this letter to headquarters, sir, with your written report of the circumstances. What will be done about the negro servant?"

The captain shook his head.

"Poor fellow, he is heartbroken. The Princess has very kindly offered to take him into her service. The letter asked that all the baggage, clothes, and personal property in the stateroom be given as a farewell gift to the faithful fellow. If you have no objection I will let him take the luggage along, when he leaves the ship with the party of her Highness."

And that is how it was, that evening, that out through the dismal drizzle of an interminably long day Rusty Snow marched down the dock, carrying Warren Jarvis' luggage and two satchels of the Princess of Aragon—another loyal retainer in her service.

It was a curious ending to an unusual voyage.

And Carlos, Duke of Alva, breathed a sigh of relief as he passed the last dock policeman, to assist his cousin into a waiting taxicab. They were to take the night train for London.



XII

WELCOME TO SEGURO!

The Princess and her party were delayed in Liverpool by the queries of the authorities just long enough to make them miss connections with the boat train at London. The trip had been carefully planned; this one provoking delay cost them another close connection at the station in Paris.

"Confound it," declared the Duke of Alva; "after all this long trip it seems to take us longer still to get back to Seguro. Maledictions on that miserable American pig. He brought bad luck from start to finish."

His cousin's face had not its usual color, but now a rosy tint flushed up for a moment as she answered sharply.

"I will not permit you to speak so of the man who at least volunteered to risk his life for me and for my brother. He proved himself more the gentleman, Carlos, than you—with all the boasted advantage which we believe accompanies a title."

The Duke was silent, morose and uncertain himself, for the remainder of the tiresome ride.

Rusty was humble as ever, but there was an expectant look in his rotund face. He inquired many times as to the exact time for the arrival of the train at San Fernandez, the nearest railroad station to Seguro.

From here the party would travel by motor to the old estate of the Princess and her family. It was a twenty-five-mile ride. The country through which the train was passing grew rougher with every mile.

After irritating delays and interminable waits at stations—for train service in Spain is the worst in Europe—San Fernandez was reached. Here they were compelled to wait in the semi-modern hotel until an automobile could be obtained. The long ride was begun, over rough roads, no roads at all, and through mud-holes which seemed relics of the Flood.

"This makes me think of de Arkansaw Traveler," muttered Rusty, but his reminiscence was unappreciated by his tired companions.

A blow-out, delay with the mending of the tire, and the fall of darkness wore out what spirits were left among the four voyagers. At last the little town was reached, and the machine was compelled to stop on the outskirts of the village, by the old post-road house, where a sleepy soldier was guarding the road for some government purposes.

As the lights of the car threw their garish glare upon the portico of the dilapidated structure, a man in English clothes, carrying a small satchel, stepped out and ran down toward the machine.

"Hoopey!" howled Rusty Snow, with such sudden gusto as to frighten his companions. The Duke stood up, trembling: he could not believe his eyes. Even Nita drew back with a scream of horror, which turned into dumfounded happiness as the unmistakable features of Warren Jarvis appeared in the bright glow.

"The Ghost Breaker!" exclaimed the Duke.

The Princess merely held out her hands, with a happy warmth which Jarvis could feel through her gloves.

"How did you spring out of the earth, just here?" she cried.

"Well, I got to the town a bit late. The old carry-all that brought me broke down three miles back and I stumbled along, knowing this was the only road which could bring you. I stopped here for something to eat—and the place is so old that not even the townspeople come there any more.... The food was older than the town."

He tossed his grip to Rusty, and turned toward the Duke.

"It strikes me that I won my bet, your Excellency!"

"Where did you come from? We thought you were drowned at sea."

"I was nearly drowned when I slid down a rope, outside the ship and flopped into the harbor as she lay at the dock. After hiding under the cover of a lifeboat for twelve hours, I was so stiff that my quarter-mile swim was the hardest job I ever did. On shore I bought new clothes, and took the first train. Q.E.D."

"How did you get here ahead of us?" asked the Princess, still misbelieving her senses. "I knew you would make it—but how so fast?"

"I had a good day's start of you—even without this automobile. But let's get on up to that castle of yours, for I want to finish up my job and get back to America."

The Duke had been watching the expression of the American, trying in vain to fathom the mystery.

"This has been a wretched hoax—you have all been in league to trick me!" he began.

But Jarvis interrupted menacingly.

"Now, listen. No whining. I stood for a good deal—I knew about that wireless, and I guess tricks can be played both ways. May I ride with your chauffeur, your Highness?"

She nodded, and, the obstruction in the road removed, they journeyed on, slowly but more or less surely, toward the distant castle.

"We will stop at old Pedro's inn to-night, for I am frantic to hear of my brother," she said as they advanced. Carlos was too deep in thought to speak again.

And up at that same inn the usual nightly round of mediaeval revelry was going on. This ancient structure, indeterminate in age and style of architecture, was built upon uneven ground. To save expense and trouble, in the distant days of its inception, it had been built upon two levels, without the excavating for foundations. Time and the weather had warped and twisted the old wooden floors and beams so that by this date it had numerous levels. Yet the remaining furniture was of substantial oak, and here and there could be seen evidence of the expenditure, in days long past, of good Spanish gold.

Asleep, with his head on the square table by the fireplace, was Pedro, the old proprietor. Two villagers sat at another table in the side of the big room playing cards, with wordy arguments about their winnings and losses.

A young woman of perhaps twenty-three, dark-skinned, dark-eyed and dark-tressed, crossed the floor from an adjoining room, to answer a knock at the door.

From the room she had left came the sound of singing and mandolines.

"Hello, Vardos—any more news?" she asked of the peasant who entered the portal bearing a basket of food.

"Still no word or sign of the Prince," he said apologetically, avoiding her scornful look. "Here's yesterday's basket untouched as usual."

"And you left to-day's basket at the castle gate?" she asked sharply.

"Yes, this is the fifteenth night," he replied, looking back at the door.

"You haven't given up hope yet?"

The man shook his head sadly.

"I gave up hope when he went in. I waited to-night until dark before I came away from the moat."

"Once to-night I thought I saw a light in the tower, Vardos."

"If you did, Senorita Dolores, it was an unblessed flame." He sank into a chair weakly. "Once when I called to-night a wail came back to me. It sounded like a sigh of the damned. It may have been only the wind through the grated window. But it chilled my heart."

"You are a silly coward," retorted Dolores. "But what then, Vardos?"

"When I called the second time something moved in the turret of the keep, and my soul was joyful. Then, with a harsh cry, a black ugly bird flew from the turret, straight toward where the sun had set.... On my left, mind you, the sinister side,—the left—the left!"

The castanets and music in the other room grew louder.

"Oh, if the good Princess were only here!" moaned the girl. "She could help. She could do something."

"She's on her way," he told her hopelessly, "but what can she do—what can anyone do, with the imps of darkness all about her?"

"She would go straight into that castle after her brother. Ah, she is a great lady, with a great heart. Then will the villagers have it said that they let their own Princess go in alone, as they did their Prince?"

"God forbid that it should come to that!" muttered the Prince's retainer, as he handed her the basket. "Good-night, senorita."

As he started for the door the girl called after him.

"Will you go again to-morrow, Vardos?"

"Yes, senorita. I will go forever, until I know for sure that it is useless. Good-night."

His words as he passed through the old portal were drowned by the cheering and applause which followed some especial favorite who had ended a song.

Dolores looked sadly at the basket, the tears streaming down her face. She lifted the napkin, showing the simple but nourishing food which had been untouched by the missing Prince. She crossed herself, with a whispered prayer for his safety, crossing the room to the ancient pantry.

The dreams of Pedro were rudely interrupted. The big door suddenly opened to admit a character very different from the weaklings who made his tavern their rendezvous. He was dark-skinned as the rest of the crew, red-faced as old Pedro (from the same faithful indulgence in vintages), not younger than forty, yet aggressive, vibrating with physical power, elasticity, and an overweening insolence. His manner of approach—and he entered this tavern with the same studied grace with which he swaggered into half a hundred others—seemed to indicate that he delighted in disorganizing and terrorizing whatever he might find established and orderly—wherever he might find it!

Beholding the somnolent proprietor, he advanced quietly to the middle of the big room. Then, with malicious enjoyment of the effect, he banged his riding-crop violently upon the table, close to the tavern keeper's ear.

"Hey, you Pedro!" he roared. "Wake up, you blockhead—wake up, I say!"

There was only a response of snores.

"You, Pedro, attention! What's the matter here? Where are you? Wake up and stop your dreaming!"

At this the startled landlord leaped to his feet, bowing through force of habit.

"Ah, Senor Robledo! One thousand pardons!" he gasped timorously. "What can I do for you, sir?"

"You're a wretch of a tavern keeper," and the newcomer advanced upon the unhappy Pedro as though about to slay him for his drowsiness.

"Yes, senor! You are always right." The man humbly endeavored to collect his wits. "How may I serve your lordship?"

The bully swaggered, puffed his cheeks, and feeling that his host was finally awake to the seriousness of the situation, he cried out once more: "My horse stands outside by the post. He has been hard ridden, for I have come on an important mission. Varlet, go out and wash his mouth, dry him down, and don't give him water until he has cooled off. Are you finally awake, you idiotic Pedro?"

The tavern keeper gulped fearsomely, and bowed his most fetching bow, without result.

"My horse is almost dead on his legs. Be kind to him. I've had a hard ride over these miserable province roads. As for me—I want a flask of ... well ... of something decent. I know that's not in your line. Step lively now; and mind you, draw it from your private cask. My temper is no better than it should be, to-night."

The old man bowed and started to leave the big room.

The blustering guest howled at him once more, punctuating his remarks with the butt of the whip.

"Where's your daughter?"

The old man trembled and bowed once more.

"I'll call her," Pedro said apologetically. "She'll be right here, sir."

He went to the door at the right, and shouted quaveringly: "Dolores! Dolores! Dolores!... There, senor, she will come at once."

"And, Pedro—if that rat-infested larder of yours is empty, get it filled before the Duke arrives," added Robledo. "Yes ... the Duke. He is coming to-night. Don't stand and stare, but hurry up and see to my horse."

"Yes, senor!... Yes, yes!"

And he tottered away on his errands.

Dolores had entered in response to the call. At first she did not observe the newcomer, whose back was toward her.

"Yes, father," she began. "Why do you wish me?"

"Dolores," Robledo turned toward her impatiently. "Did you not know I had come?"

"Oh, it's you?" and there was a scornful sniff from the girl.

"Well, well, can't you say you're glad to see me?"

The jade was hard to impress, where others showed abjection before the terrorist.

"I can, but I won't. Where's my father?"

"Never mind your father—I want to talk to you."

"Is it so, Senor Robledo? Well, you won't in that tone."

He intercepted her in the center of the room, catching her wrist and turning her about to face him.

"What do you want to say to me?"

"You little devil!... Come here, don't try to get away." The girl was tugging to release herself. "What's come over you these days? You are about as fond and sweet-tempered as a tigress. Anyone would think that you didn't care for me at all. What have I done, Dolores?"

"It is what you have not done. For fifteen days your Prince has been in need of you, and you have not had the courage to go to him. Let go my wrist."

Don Robledo laughed, yet with a quaver in his voice, for there was a depth of passion here, intensified by the spirited resistance of the girl.

"Who's the little spitfire trying to tear to pieces now?"

"You!" she snapped back. "Don Robledo—sword-fighter—toreador—fire-eater —hero of a hundred duels!... You—Don Robledo—coward!"

He clumsily chuckled her under the chin.

"I asked you to-day," she continued, as she threw his hand away from her face, "I begged you to go into the castle and rescue your Prince. I ask you now to answer the signal that I just saw in the tower window, where he can see our lights. Perhaps he has burned something, a scrap of paper, in the hope that some of you, his retainers, would notice it and come to his assistance. But—he doesn't know what a pack of cowards you all are, or he would have saved his matches. So, it's Don Robledo—coward!"

The big man snarled.

"Coward—never a coward in a fair fight in the open, and I'll meet the best man that walks the earth." Here he faced the inquisitive and thoroughly awed villagers. "Any two or three!"

He banged the table with his riding-crop to punctuate the emphasis.

"I don't ask you to kill one or two or three of these poor whimpering sheep of Seguro. I ask you to dare something, at risk to yourself. To go to the aid of your Prince.... There isn't a man among you—who dares! Dios! How I could love such a man!"

They had not heard the thrum of the motors on the roadway outside. The door opened, and the first of the party to enter was the Duke. He walked quietly into the room, overhearing the words of Dolores.

"A pretty little speech!" he observed sarcastically.

"Your Excellency!" cried Robledo, taking off his hat. "Welcome back to Seguro."

"Yes, I am well come to Seguro."

The natives doffed their hats, and like Pedro bowed and howled in the time-honored peasant way.

"The Duke! The Duke!"

"Pedro, go out and help the Princess and her servants with the luggage. I want to speak to you alone, Robledo. Hurry, while the others are delayed with that execrable car. I walked a hundred yards to get here first."

He turned toward Dolores with a scowl.

"Those are charming sentiments for your fellow-townsmen, whose healthy common sense prevents them from rushing to a fool's death. Still, all fools are not dead yet. One of them will be here to-night. And you, senorita, will doubtless be pleased to look over him, as he has come all the way from America for the privilege of entering the castle and playing your hero."

Dolores looked at Robledo, as she parried:

"And did her Highness have to go all the way to America to find him?"

"Yes, indeed. He's from America, where all the fools come from!"

And the villagers joined in a merry chorus of intelligent laughter!



XIII

"GENTLEMEN, A MAN!"

Dolores had hurried upstairs, where she well knew there was a tiny attic in the rambling old building which acted as an excellent whispering gallery. Every word spoken in the larger room below could be heard from this vantage. She was no sooner secreted there than she heard the voice of the Duke.

"You received my telegram sent to San Fernandez?"

"Yes, Excellency. Antonio brought it over with the mail-bags."

"What about the Prince?"

"Ah, Excellency ... why ask? The same news as before. This stupid Vardos has been taking food to the castle every day, but he is too frightened to venture into the miserable old pile of stones. It is most droll, your Excellency."

"Well then, Robledo, I am satisfied as far as that goes. But you have work before you of a new character."

The swordsman struck a chair with his riding-crop. It seemed a favorite stage effect with him; the Duke was not slow in catching its significance.

"Just forget these little affectations, my good man," he said haughtily. "None of this blustering around me. I know that you do your work well, and at other times there is much to be desired. Now, in this case, you have a dangerous man to combat. And the combat must be final, no matter how difficult."

"How is he dangerous?" and there was a new note in Robledo's blustering voice.

"Unless he is stopped he may cause trouble for the traditions of Seguro. He is crafty as a contrabandisto, cunning as the snakes of the Pyrenees! He has been brought here by my cousin the Princess to make some special investigations." He laughed, with that cruel, mirthless inflection so characteristic. "She should have left that to me—and she will be sorry ere it is all over. This man has thwarted me twice already. Coming over on the steamer from America the scoundrel disappeared from the ship most remarkably, just when I had all arranged to put him into duress in Liverpool. I have yet to learn the secret of it. He must be discouraged ... you understand, Robledo?"

"Excellency, I can assure you that the Yankee pig will be convinced, in a language which he will understand, that his presence in the castle to-night is quite unnecessary. Have you any particular instructions?"

The Duke shook his head and grimaced suggestively.

"Any way you please, Robledo. You understand my general ideas on such subjects. Means are of no consequence to a born statesman. Results are the only permanent things in this world. However—I warn you. Don't underestimate your man. He will shoot; I imagine that he can shoot quickly and without a tremor."

"Ha, ha! Good opposition. I welcome such an antagonist—these fat-brained peasants about here are too simple to stimulate me to good work. I have been growing dull and commonplace—I am almost out of training, as they call it in the bull-ring."

"Come then, and I will give Pedro some money to buy drinks for the stupid dolts,—they can drink my health: it is none of the best these days, Robledo. My American trip was wearing. It is a wretched, unromantic hole—not a country, just a great mob of people."

"I can well believe your Excellency. This way, sir."

They returned to the big room of the tavern, and Dolores retired from the temporary confessional box. Her face showed mixed emotions—but predominating over any other influence was the great desire to serve the rulers of her family. Curiously loyal are these humble peasants of the inland Latin districts. Their lives follow the monotonous example of the generations before them: as their grandsires, their fathers were tradesmen of a certain calling, so do they follow the strata, contented to exist with the conventional beginning, moderately happy middle era, and inevitably stupid ending of their lives.

It is this which is so pleasing to the European aristocrats: no matter how bankrupt, incompetent, disreputable, the class theory which is recognized by the masses is, "Once a gentleman, always a gentleman."

It is inconceivable upon the Continent for a peasant's or even a tradesman's son or daughter to aspire to a higher level than that of the family. Exceptions to the rule are looked upon with distrust by superiors as well as the lowly equals: too much ambition is a temptation to the gods which is hardly respectable.

There is a smug contentment, then, in the feudal countries which is the surest bulwark of the "divine right of kings"—and courtiers! A pleasantly distended belly, a mellow thrill from cheap wine, a certainty about the repetition of regular meals and drinks, with enough clothes and shelter to maintain relative positions with the neighbors—this year, next year, and twenty years from now ... these things are the mess of pottage for which the Esaus of the kingdoms and principalities sell their birthrights and their souls!

Vardos—for instance—bodyservant and sole military retainer of a princely line which for generation after generation had considered itself in humiliating straits unless there were at least a thousand lances at beck and call—old Vardos had been thrown into a mental maelstrom by the sudden change in the lifelong existence. Sure of his meals and a modicum of money for occasional visits to taprooms, he was now placed in a position of responsibility, one where executive and aggressiveness were demanded. Here old Vardos failed, because he was a peasant true to his type. The poor fellow had struggled with his grief these fifteen days—now he felt, with a helpless aching of the faithful heart, that he must have been in a sense responsible for the death of his master. He had pleaded with the young Prince not to enter the accursed place.

Insanity and suicide though it seemed to be to him, he could not help it. That was bad enough—but with the prospect of the beautiful Princess going into the place as well: life had become a horrible thing to him.

He sought the wayside shrine down the crooked village street. He threw himself upon his knees before it, vowing candles to every saint who had granted petty favors to him in the past!

He faced the great cathedral, rearing its pale crest in the dim light from the stars, vast and exalted above the miserable squalor of those whose ancestors had created its grandeur with their inspired devotion. He told the Holy Family and the saints, with tear-choked voice, the quandary of his noble master, and begged that, though they should never grant him another request, somehow, somewhere, they find and bring a gallant adventurer who could turn defeat into victory, one more willing and competent than himself, to die!

And the answer to this prayer was unburdening his own soul with semi-religious phrases, in a Kentucky accent, addressed with unwonted and even picturesque fluency at the stumbling, stodgy Rusty Snow, who trudged along loaded with luggage and an insatiate hatred of this "cussed foreign joint," as he labeled it to himself.

The Princess and her maid had, at Jarvis' suggestion, left them with the automobile in its latest quagmire, to reach the shelter of the inn. So it was that, as her vassal and his vassal struggled with the luggage in the dark, she reached the portal of the house of Pedro.

Robledo was hearkening carefully to certain careful instructions from the Duke of Alva, nodding with a smile of malicious portent at the final words.

"I will not fall short of my former reputation, your Excellency," declared the Don. "When a man reaches my time of life, after a success in the bull-ring as toreador, in the army as a duelist, and in the private retinue of so distinguished a nobleman as yourself, he has a certain pride in his ability.... Indeed, I regret that I must waste my talents upon a stupid pig of a Yankee."

Shaking his head, Carlos drew out his purse.

"The man is no idiot, unfortunately. He has completely won the confidence of the Princess, despite his obvious trickeries. Now, however, I would like to attend to a few little tasks of cleaning up after that miserable trip."

Pedro was approaching them subserviently, a humble, bobbing head betokening his anxiety to please the fine folk.

"Anything else, your Excellency?" he stammered, overcome with the pomp and majesty of the situation.

"Here, my good man, take this coin and have the brave lads in the taproom drink to my health and that of her Exalted Highness, the Princess Maria Theresa."

With studied carelessness, he dropped the coin upon the floor, and Pedro chased the rolling golden disk with surprising agility.

"Then bring me up some hot water, soap, and towels. You may prepare a hasty supper, as well—but let it be fit for a gentleman to eat!"

"Yes, yes! Your Excellency!" and Pedro nearly brought back his rheumatic spell by the renewed bobbing of the stiff old back, as he retreated to the barroom.

He returned promptly after breaking the gladsome tidings of the treat, and led the nobleman up the stairway, as a chorus of cheers rang out from the alcoholic ward.

"The Duke! The Duke! His Excellency the Duke of Alva!"

Robledo walked to the door, with his characteristic swashbuckler rhythm, and stirred them up to more enthusiasm.

"Louder, you beggars, or I'll give you something to yell about—louder, I say!"

Dolores had slipped through the doorway, facing the road.

Suddenly she danced in through the entry again, happy and exultant.

"Her Highness has come, father. Her Highness!"

Old Pedro stumbled toward the balcony and peered over at her querulously.

"Father, father!"

"What is it, Dolores?"

"Her Highness, the Princess!"

The old man bustled down the stairs, trembling with added excitement, just as Maria Theresa and Nita were bowed into the tavern by a villager who had accompanied them from the delayed machine.

The peasants trooped into the room from the tap, howling with mediaeval enthusiasm.

"Your Gracious Highness does my humble inn great honor," began Pedro, as his local guests imitated the clumsy courtesy with varying ability.

"Thank you, Pedro," replied the Princess graciously as one would address a polite child.

She held out her hand to Dolores, who kissed it reverently, with a bow and a bend of the knee.

"Your Highness, we are poorly prepared for this great favor, ill prepared indeed," apologized Dolores. "Your exalted cousin gave us but short warning of your coming. Our humble tavern is hardly fitting for a great lady."

"My child, any place to remove the dust of travel will do for me." She turned toward the villager at the door. "Tell my chauffeur that when he repairs the car I shall want it kept in readiness to use again."

Nita advanced anxiously.

"Your Highness is not thinking of going to the castle to-night, surely?" Her voice was politely remonstrative, with a note of apprehensiveness for the welfare of her mistress.

"But I must have news," declared the young woman impatiently. "I am frantic with worry, and the things which Jose has told me. Come to a room, Nita."

"Ah, your Highness, you are too brave, too determined. You are all worn out with this long trip. Better to wait until daylight, if I may be so bold as to suggest to your ladyship. You are all unstrung just now."

Maria Theresa did indeed show the strain of the nerve-racking trip, but she valiantly shook her head.

"Show me up, Dolores. When Mr. Warren, my representative, arrives inform him that I will be down very soon. Come, Nita, for I know that your hands can rest me, with their skillful massage," and she spoke wearily.

Pedro stepped forward, bowing.

"Allow me the honor, your Highness. I have the finest chamber in the tavern prepared for you—a fire to take the night chill from the largest bedroom."

She started up the steps, followed by her maid and the old man, still risking a strained back with his excited bows.

Again she turned to Dolores, with a strange nervousness, to say: "Do not forget to explain to Mr. Warren. He may think I have left the tavern. I will see him soon."

"I will give your commands to the Senor Americano, your Highness," promised the black-eyed Dolores, with a heightened color.

Then the Princess disappeared across the end of the balcony. Dolores walked to the doorway, and discerned two figures approaching with a strange slowness.

"Is this the inn?" cried a voice, with a slight foreign accent in the Spanish.

"Yes, yes, senor. Come in, senor, we are expecting you," replied the girl.

The villagers were still grouped about the door to the taproom. Dolores stepped back, as Warren Jarvis and Rusty Snow entered the big front hallway, and blinked in the unaccustomed glare of light.

They were both burdened with suitcases, and two of the Princess' hatboxes. These they dropped unceremoniously on the floor, with sighs of relief.

"We're here, Rusty, with both feet!"

"Yassir," and the negro groaned with exhaustion, "and I'd jest as lieve be back in Meadow Green. Dis don't look very scrumptious for a Mrs. Princessess' plantation house."

"This is no castle, Rusty. This is only the halfway house."

Dolores could not understand their low conversation in English—and Afro-Americanese! But she had studied the clear features, the nonchalant bearing of the tall American. She turned toward the sheep-like, staring villagers, and with an eloquent wave of her hand she cried out resonantly:

"Gentlemen—a man!"



Jarvis was lighting his cigarette, and he laughed, with a side-remark to his valet:

"Rusty, as the Indians said to Columbus: 'We're discovered!'" He turned toward the girl. "Did you by any chance address me, fair senorita?"

"I'm calling the attention of these valiant gentlemen of Seguro to the only man with spirit and bravery enough to enter the haunted castle," she declared.