aroused no
return of an entente toward what had once been a half-sentimental
attachment convinced him of how little it had meant to him. There were
no royal prohibitions upon him now. To marry the Princess Anastasie and
settle in London, living upon the proceeds of her wealthy father's
American and British securities, was of course the easiest solution of
his difficulties. A life of ease, music, good sportsmanship, the comfort
that only England knows.... She was comely too--blond, petite, and
smoked her cigarette very prettily. Their marriage had once been
discussed. She wanted it still, perhaps. Something of all this may have
been somewhere in the back of Prince Galitzin's ambitious mind. The one
course would be so easy, the other----

Peter Nicholaevitch rose and carefully flicked his cigarette through the
open port. No. One does not pass twice through such moments of struggle
and self-communion as he had had in those long nights of his escape
along the Dnieper. He had chosen. Peter Nichols! The name amused him. If
Captain Blashford was a man of his word to-night would be the end of the
Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch, and the Princess Anastasie might find
some more ardent suitor to her grace and beauty.

She did not seek him out. Perhaps the hint to Galitzin had been
sufficient and the Grand Duke from his hiding place saw her pretty
figure set ashore among the miscellany of martyred "r'yalty." He turned
away from his port-hole with a catch of his breath as the last vestige
of his old life passed from sight. And then quietly took up a fresh
cigarette and awaited the Captain.

The details were easily arranged. Blashford was a man of resource and at
night returned from a visit to the Captain of the _Bermudian_ with word
that all was well. He had been obliged to relate the facts but Captain
Armitage could keep a secret and promised the refugee a job under his
steward who was short-handed. And so the next morning, after shaving and
dressing himself in borrowed clothes, Peter Nichols shook Captain
Blashford warmly by the hand and went aboard his new ship.

Peter Nichols' new job was that of a waiter at the tables in the dining
saloon. He was a very good waiter, supplying, from the wealth of a
Continental experience, the deficiencies of other waiters he had known.
He wore a black shell jacket and a white shirt front which remained
innocent of gravy spots. The food was not very good nor very plentiful,
but he served it w