f him, so far as I can remember,"
said Terry thoughtfully. "What's he like? Middle-aged, stout?"

"He looks thirty, so he is probably forty; for if you look your age, you
are probably ten years past it--though that sounds a bit more Irish than
Scotch, eh? And he's far from being stout. From a woman's point of view,
I should say he might be very attractive. Tall; thin; melancholy;
enormous eyes; moustache waxed; scar on forehead; successful effect of
dashing soldier, but not much under the effect, I should say, except
inordinate self-esteem, and a masterly selfishness which would take what
it wanted at almost any cost to others. There's a portrait of Prince
Dalmar-Kalm for you."

"Evidently not the sort of man who ought to be allowed to hang about
young girls."

"Young girls with money. Don't worry about the vestal virgin. He won't
have time in this game to bother with poor relations, no matter how
pretty they may happen to be."

Terry still looked thoughtful. "Well, if we are going in for this queer
business, we'd better get off as soon as possible," said he.

I smiled in my sleeve. "St. George in a stew to get the Princess out of
the dragon's claws," I thought; but I refrained from speaking the
thought aloud. Whatever the motive, the wish was to be encouraged. The
sooner the wild goose laid the first golden egg the better. Fortunately
for my private interests, the season was waning and the coming week
would see the setting of my _Riviera Sun_ until next November. I could
therefore get away, leaving what remained of the work to be done by my
"sub"; and I determined that, Prince or no Prince, luncheon to-morrow
should not pass without a business arrangement being completed between
the parties.

III

A CHAPTER OF REVENGES

Mrs. Kidder, alias the Countess Dalmar, either had a fondness for lavish
hospitality or else she considered us exceptionally distinguished
guests. Our feast was not laid in a private dining-room (what is the
good of having distinguished guests if nobody is to know you've got
them?); nevertheless, it was a feast. The small round table, close to
one of the huge windows of the restaurant, was a condensed flower-show.
Our plates and glasses (there were many of the latter) peeped at us from
a bower of roses, and bosky dells of greenery. The Countess and the
Infant were dressed as for a royal garden party, and Terry and I would
have felt like moulting sparrows had not Miss Destrey's plain wh