e princess the
usurping duke was going to marry, and surprised everybody by showing
that, at a pinch, even this Guy Fawkes--who was stuffed with all manner
of guile and wickedness where youthful patriotism would ordinarily
incline to straw--was capable of telling the truth. And so the father
broke off the match. And the enamored, if usurping, duke wept bitterly
and tore his hair to such an extent he totally destroyed his best
toupet. And privily the Guy Fawkes came into the presence of the
exiled duke and prated of a restoration to ancestral dignities. And he
was spurned by a certain highly intelligent person who considered it
both tedious and ridiculous to play at being emperor of a backyard.
And then--I really don't recall what happened. But there was a general
and unqualified deuce to pay with no pitch at a really satisfying
temperature."

The stouter man said quietly: "It is a thrilling tale which you
narrate. Only, I do recall what happened then. The usurping duke was
very much in earnest, desirous of retaining his little kingdom, and
particularly desirous of the woman whom he loved. In consequence, he
had Monsieur the Runaway obliterated while the latter was talking
nonsense----"

The tutor's brows had mounted.

"I scorn to think it even of anybody who is controlled in every action
by a sense of duty," Georges Desmarets explained, "that Duke Augustus
would cause you to be murdered in your sleep."

"A hit!" The younger man unsmilingly gesticulated like one who has
been touched in sword-play. "Behold now, as the populace in their
blunt way would phrase it, I am squelched."

"And so the usurping duke was married and lived happily ever
afterward." Georges Desmarets continued: "I repeat to you there is only
the choice between declaring yourself and being--we will say, removed.
Your cousin is deeply in love with the Princess Sophia, and thanks to
me, has now no chance of marrying her until his title has been secured
by your--removal. Do not deceive yourself. High interests are
involved. You are the grain of sand between big wheels. I iterate
that the footpad who attacked you last night was merely a prologue. I
happen to know your cousin has entrusted the affair to Heinrich
Obendorf, his foster-brother, who, as you will remember, is not
particularly squeamish."

Paul Vanderhoffen thought a while. "Desmarets," he said at last, "it
is no use. I scorn your pribbles and your prabbles. I bargained w