ing of the circling
rooks--it all comes back to me as if I had but walked out of it all an
hour ago.

However, the morning soon came when we were to bid adieu to it all, and
in the hurry and scurry of it and the race down to the station in the
motor--for we were late, Ethel's maid having forgotten an important
hat--perhaps we forgot all our peaceful happiness in our feverish
speculations on our voyage across the Atlantic to that distant South
American Republic, Aquazilia, and its mountain capital, Valoro.

CHAPTER X

THE PLOT THAT FAILED

Settling on the Hotel Victoria as our headquarters, we prepared to make
the two days before our sailing as amusing as possible, but I always
had before me the nightmare of the little carved casket which I was to
carry with me.

I decided I would take no risks with it. I would go and fetch it from
my solicitors on the afternoon of our departure, on the way to the
station. It was very evident to me that this casket contained
something of the greatest possible interest to several people,
including in particular His Serene Highness, the Duke of Rittersheim.

When, then, Ethel, St. Nivel and I had crowded all the visits to
theatres and matinees we could into the intervening two days, we sat
taking our last luncheon in England, probably, for some time to come.

"I am so glad we are going by this boat instead of the next," remarked
St. Nivel, taking a glass of Chartreuse from the attentive waiter who
was on the look out for a parting tip; "a fortnight makes all the
difference in that part of the world; we shall just get there for the
tail end of the summer, which they say is glorious. A bit of a change,
I am thinking," he added, with a glance out of the window, "to this
kind of diluted pea-soup weather we get here in November."

"Let us see," said Ethel, with a calculating air, "this is the last
week in November. We arrive there the second week in December, and the
rainy season does not begin until the middle of January. We shall have
a clear month to enjoy ourselves in!"

"Very delightful," I replied; "a delightful voyage under delightful
circumstances."

I bowed to my cousin Ethel as I raised my liqueur glass to my lips.

She blew away the smoke of the cigarette she took from hers--we were in
a private room--and smiled at me.

"You flattering old courtier!" she answered; "you get those airs
through writing romances. What is more to the purpose, have you
secured t