door.

A moment later the Princess Naia appeared on the stairs, descending
lightly and swiftly, her motor coat over her arm.

"Jim," she said in a low voice, "it's the wretched girl's only chance.
They know about her; they're looking for her now. But I am trusted by
my Ambassador; I shall have what papers I ask for; I shall get her
through to an American steamer."

"Princess Naia, you are splendid!"

"You don't think so, Jim; you never did.... Be nice to Rue. The child
has been dreadfully frightened about you.... And," added the Princess
Mistchenka with a gaily forced smile, resting her hand on Neeland's
shoulder for an instant, "don't ever kiss Rue Carew unless you mean it
with every atom of your heart and soul.... I know the child.... And I
know you. Be generous to her, James. All women need it, I think, from
such men as you--such men as you," she added laughingly, "who know not
what they do."

If there was a subtle constraint in her pretty laughter, if her gay
gesture lacked spontaneity, he did not perceive it. His face had
flushed a trifle under her sudden badinage.

"Good-bye," he said. "You _are_ splendid, and I _do_ think so. I know
you'll win through."

"I shall. I always do--except with you," she added audaciously. And
"Look for me tomorrow!" she called back to him through the open door;
and slammed it behind her, leaving him standing there alone in the
dark and curtained house.

CHAPTER XXXV

THE FIRST DAY

Neeland had undressed, bathed his somewhat battered body, and had then
thrown himself on the bed, fully intending to rise in a few moments
and await breakfast.

But it was a very weary young man who stretched himself out for ten
minutes' repose. And, when again he unclosed his eyes, the austere
clock on the mantel informed him that it was five--not five in the
morning either.

He had slept through the first day of general mobilisation.

Across the lowered latticed blinds late afternoon sunshine struck red.
The crests of the chestnut trees in the rue Soleil d'Or had turned
rosy; and a delicate mauve sky, so characteristic of Paris in early
autumn, already stretched above the city like a frail tent of silk
from which fragile cobweb clouds hung, tinted with saffron and palest
rose.

Hoisting the latteen shades, he looked out through lace curtains into
the most silent city he had ever beheld. Not that the streets and
avenues were deserted: they swarmed with hurrying, silent people a