The Prince of Ragusa, hereditary ruler of some ten square miles and fabulously wealthy, was known to the learned as a zealous archæologist. He was one of the half-dozen men in the world whose collection might contain a Hottentot Venus. But, unless his reputation belied him, he was very unlikely to know or care anything about a soubrette from Paris. And why should he send his Hottentot Venus to a girls’ school? “Still several unknown quantities,” Reggie reflected. And yet there was the Hottentot Venus in the Tormouth school and there off Tormouth lay the Prince of Ragusa. “I think we’ll make Brer Lomas sit up and take notice,” said Reggie, and devoted himself to the composition of Latin prose. Thus: “De academia sororis nonnihil timeo nec quid timean certe scio. Sunt qui conjurarint et fortasse in flagitium. Si quid improvisum vel mihi vel academiae eveniret principem de Ragusa et navem eius capere oporteret.” This he wrote on telegraph forms, and with his own hand presented to the lady at the post office, who was justly horrified. “But what language is it?” she protested. “There you have me,” Reggie confessed. “It would like to be Latin, but I left school when I was young.” The lady sniffed but, looking at it again, saw that it was addressed to Scotland Yard, and said, “Ah, I understand.” “I wish I did,” Reggie murmured. For the sense of that mysterious telegram is: “I am anxious about your sister’s school, and don’t quite know what I am afraid of. There is a conspiracy on foot which may be criminal. If anything unforeseen happens to me or the school, catch the Prince of Ragusa and his yacht.” “Yes. Nuts to crack for Lomas,” said Reggie. And he went to dinner. It is now necessary to employ the narrative of Miss Somers, B.Sc. On the next day there was a lecture given in the Tormouth assembly rooms by Mr. Horatio Bean, the photographer of a recent expedition to the Arctic regions. To such edifying entertainments Miss Lomas was accustomed to send her girls. Miss Somers, B.Sc., was in charge of the detachment which marched to the assembly rooms on this occasion. Her narrative, purged of emotion unfit for a female bachelor of science, goes like this: She noticed nothing till the pictures began--that is, till the room was darkened. Then two girls got up in a hurry. One of them, who was Alice Warenne, whispered to her as she passed that Hilda Crowland didn’t feel very well. Alice was going out with her and would look after her. They went. At the close of the lecture, one of the attendants approached Miss Somers and said he had been asked to tell her that the two young ladies had gone back to the school.