loor
below and waited, with the diabolical independence of the American
lords of the lift, "for to teach 'im a lessing," this one explained
to a passing chamber-maid.

St. George hurried to his apartment to leave a note for Amory who
was directed upon his arrival to bide there and await his host's
return. Then he paced the floor until it was time to go back to the
Boris, deaf to Rollo's solemn information that the dust comes up out
of the varnish of furniture during the night, like cream out of
milk. By the time he had boarded a down-town car, St. George had
tortured himself to distraction, and his own responsibility in this
submarine voyage loomed large and threatening. Therefore, it
suddenly assumed the proportion of mountains yet unseen when, though
it wanted ten minutes to twelve when he reached the Boris, his card
was returned by a faint polite clerk with the information that Mrs.
Hastings and Miss Holland had been gone from the hotel for half an
hour. There was a note for him in their box the clerk believed, and
presently produced it--a brief, regretful word from Olivia telling
him that the prince had found that they must leave fully an hour
earlier than he had planned.

Sick with apprehension, cursing himself for the ease and dexterity
with which he had permitted himself to be outwitted by Tabnit, St.
George turned blindly from the office with some vague idea of
chartering all the tugs in the harbour. It came to him that he had
bungled the matter from first to last, and that Bud or Bennietod
would have used greater shrewdness. And while he was in the midst of
anathematizing his characteristic confidence he stepped in the outer
hallway and saw that which caused that confidence to balloon
smilingly back to support him.

In the vestibule of the Boris, deaf to the hovering attention of a
door-boy more curious than dutiful, stood two men of the stature and
complexion of Prince Tabnit of Yaque. They were dressed like the
youth who had answered the door of the prince's apartment, and they
were speaking softly with many gestures and evidently in some
perplexity. The drooping spirits of St. George soared to Heaven as
he hastened to them.

"You are asking for Miss Holland, the daughter of King Otho of
Yaque," he said, with no time to smile at the pranks of the
democracy with hereditary titles.

The men stared and spoke almost together.

"We are," they said promptly.

"She is not here," explained St. George, "but