ere,
mebbe to-morrow, mebbe de nex' day."

The Count tore a leaf from a notebook and scribbled something rapidly.
When he spoke, it was to the Hungarian, and in Magyar, but it was easy
to guess that he was giving earnest directions as to the delivery of
the note.

"Now would be a good time to raise a row if we could manage it,"
growled Steingall.

Curtis was toying with his fourth meal since sunset, and admitted that
he was ready for anything rather than spaghetti a la tomato.

"If there's enough varieties of Hungarians and Slavs in the street I
can start a riot in less than no time," confided Devar.

"How?" asked the detective.

"This way," and Devar began to sing. He owned a light tenor, clear and
melodious, and the air had a curiously barbaric lilt which, musically
considered, was reminiscent of the gypsies' chorus in "The Bohemian
Girl." But the words were couched in a strange tongue, sonorous and
full voweled, and the Hungarians in the room became greatly stirred
when it dawned on them that a semi-intoxicated American stoker was
chanting a forbidden national melody. Far better than he knew, he
sounded uncharted deeps in human nature. Andrew Fletcher of Saltoun
stated an eternal truth when he wrote to the Marquis of Montrose: "I
know a very wise man that believed that if a man were permitted to make
all the ballads he need not care who should make the laws of a nation."
Before Devar had finished the first verse people from the street were
crowding in through the open door, and flashing eyes and strange
ejaculations showed that the Czechs thought they were witnessing a
miracle. As the second verse rang out, vibrant and challenging, the
mob, eager to share in the interior excitement, rushed the entrance.
Many could hear, but few could see, and all were roused to exaltation
by a melody the public singing of which would have brought imprisonment
or death in their own land.

"Now for it!" roared Steingall, and over went table and crockery with a
crash. Of course, this added to the turmoil, and some women in the
cafe began to shriek. Not knowing in the least what was causing the
commotion, the crowd surged into that particular corner, and Steingall,
apparently frenzied, sprang to the window, opened it, and said to Count
Vassilan:

"Get out, quick! They'll be knifing you in a minute!"

The Italian girl screamed at that, so she was lifted into the safety of
the street. Vassilan followed, or rather was p