rishly, frantically anxious.

"Tell me that again," he shrieked. "You mean it? Swear that you mean
it."

Prince Shan's gesture as he turned away was one of supreme contempt.

"A Shan," he said, "never needs to repeat."

There was the bustle of arriving police, the story of a revolver which
had gone off by accident, a very puzzling contretemps expounded for
their benefit. The situation, and the participants in it, seemed to
dissolve with such facility that it was hard for any one to understand
what had actually happened. Prince Shan, with Maggie on his arm, was
talking to the leader of the orchestra, who had suddenly reappeared. The
former turned to his companion.

"It is not my custom to dance," he said, "but the waltz that they were
beginning to play seemed to me to have a little of the lure of our own
music. Will you do me the honour?"

They moved away to the music. Chalmers stood and watched them, with one
hand in his pocket and the other on Nigel's shoulder. He turned to
Naida, who was on the other side.

"Nothing like a touch of melodrama for the emotions," he grumbled. "Look
at Lady Maggie! Her head might be touching the clouds, and I never saw
her eyes shine like that when she danced with me."

"You don't dance as well as Prince Shan, old fellow," Nigel told him.

"And the Prince sails for China at dawn," Naida murmured.

CHAPTER XXXII

Prince Shan stood in the tiny sitting room of his suite upon the _Black
Dragon_ and looked around him critically. The walls were of black oak,
with white inlaid plaques on which a great artist had traced little
fanciful figures,--a quaint Chinese landscape, a temple, a flower-hung
pagoda. There were hangings of soft, blue silk tapestry, brought from
one of his northern palaces. The cloth which covered the table was of
the finest silk. There were several bowls of flowers, a couch, and two
comfortable chairs. Through the open doors of the two bedchambers came a
faint glimpse of snow-white linen, a perfume reminiscent at once of
almond blossom, green tea, and crushed lavender, and in the little room
beyond glistened a silver bath. Already attired for the voyage, his
pilot stood on the threshold.

"Is all well, your Highness?" he asked.

"Everything is in order," Prince Shan replied. "Ching Su is a perfect
steward."

"The reverend gentleman is in his room, your Highness," the pilot went
on. "All the supplies have arrived, and the crew are at their stations.
A