“I wonder if you know who little Alice Warenne really is? She is an actress from the Theatre des Variétés in Paris.” Miss Crowland laughed. “She was employed to get a photograph of you, to find out all about you, to arrange for you to be kidnapped like this, and to persuade you to come aboard.” “Monsieur is a detective!” Alice slid up between them. “Oh, but a very great detective.” “I knew all that. Except that she is an actress.” Miss Crowland turned to her. “Are you an actress?” “Darling!” Alice laughed all over her baby face. “That is the prettiest compliment, is it not, M. the detective?” “If you think she has cheated me, she has not. She told me that the Prince of Ragusa said he was my father, and that he wanted me to come on his yacht. My mother never would tell me anything about my father. I didn’t think that was fair. So I came. And now, Mr.--Mr. Fortune, what will my mother do?” “What shall we all do?” Reggie laughed. “You’re in a hole and your mother’s in a hole, and the Prince of Ragusa is in the deepest hole of the three.” “Excepting always M. the detective,” Alice laughed. “Look, monsieur--the beautiful England--she vanishes! Adieu, the respectable country and the nice policemen!” “Do you imagine you are here to look after me?” said Miss Crowland fiercely. “Think of me as a mother,” said Reggie, and she went away in a rage. “Well, monsieur?” Alice laughed at him. “You are making friends everywhere. You are content?” “If I had a razor and a clean shirt,” Reggie said. “Alas, monsieur, I have none. I do not play--how do you call them?--principal boys. Bon voyage, monsieur.” She tripped away. It was made clear to Reggie that he was not going to be popular on board. The retinue of the Prince avoided him emphatically. The royal family remained below. He was taken to a cabin, and there dinner was served him. “And not a bad dinner either,” said Reggie, as he went on deck again. It was dark and a moonless night. The yacht was meeting a southerly breeze and the first of the ocean swell and grew lively. Reggie had the deck to himself. He was nearly at the end of his cigar before any one disturbed his humorous meditations. “Mr. Fortune? You amuse yourself?” It was the Comte de Spoleto. “I can smile.” “In effect, my friend, we are ridiculous. My uncle he is a dreamer--a student. He sees a thing in his mind, it is logical, it is to his desire, and he conceives it done. He has been like that always. A temperament! He is not a man of the world.” “I guessed that,” Reggie murmured. “But what to do? The situation is impossible, my friend. Conceive my feelings. This young girl--she is fresh, she is superb as a morning in the mountains--and by me she is exposed to this humiliation. And I--whatever I do, I am ludicrous. I beg of you, my friend, believe that I feel it. Imagine my position.” “Imagine mine. You might lend me a razor. But hardly a tooth-brush.”