elf out of the
papers. Besides, as regards newspapers, you ought to be glad you aren't
in New York. Just fancy what the dear old Herald would have made out of
a little transaction like yours of last night.'

'That's true,' assented Racksole. 'But it'll be all over New York
to-morrow morning, all the same. The worst of it is that Babylon has
gone off to Switzerland.'

'Why?'

'Don't know. Sudden fancy, I guess, for his native heath.'

'What difference does it make to you?'

'None. Only I feel sort of lonesome. I feel I want someone to lean up
against in running this hotel.'

'Father, if you have that feeling you must be getting ill.'

'Yes,' he sighed, 'I admit it's unusual with me. But perhaps you haven't
grasped the fact, Nella, that we're in the middle of a rather queer
business.'

'You mean about poor Mr Dimmock?'

'Partly Dimmock and partly other things. First of all, that Miss
Spencer, or whatever her wretched name is, mysteriously disappears. Then
there was the stone thrown into your bedroom. Then I caught that rascal
Jules conspiring with Dimmock at three o'clock in the morning. Then your
precious Prince Aribert arrives without any suite--which I believe is a
most peculiar and wicked thing for a Prince to do--and moreover I find
my daughter on very intimate terms with the said Prince. Then young
Dimmock goes and dies, and there is to be an inquest; then Prince Eugen
and his suite, who were expected here for dinner, fail to turn up at
all--'

'Prince Eugen has not come?'

'He has not; and Uncle Aribert is in a deuce of a stew about him, and
telegraphing all over Europe. Altogether, things are working up pretty
lively.'

'Do you really think, Dad, there was anything between Jules and poor Mr
Dimmock?'

'Think! I know! I tell you I saw that scamp give Dimmock a wink last
night at dinner that might have meant--well!'

'So you caught that wink, did you, Dad?'

'Why, did you?'

'Of course, Dad. I was going to tell you about it.'

The millionaire grunted.

'Look here, Father,' Nella whispered suddenly, and pointed to the
balcony immediately below them. 'Who's that?' She indicated a man with a
bald patch on the back of his head, who was propping himself up against
the railing of the balcony and gazing immovable into the ball-room.

'Well, who is it?'

'Isn't it Jules?'

'Gemini! By the beard of the prophet, it is!'

'Perhaps Mr Jules is a guest of Mrs Sampson Levi.'

'Guest or no guest, h