“I knew you were here, Prince Ugo, and would have inquired for you but that I suspected you would be closely engaged,” said Quentin, after a moment. “Earlier in the evening I was engaged, but I am here now as the bearer of a message to you, Mr. Quentin. Miss Garrison has asked me to deliver into your hands this missive.” With that he drew from his pocket a sealed envelope and passed it to Quentin. “I was commanded to give it you to-night, so perhaps you will read it now.” “Thank you,” muttered the other, nervously tearing open the envelope as the prince turned to Dickey Savage. At that moment the duke and the count strolled into the rotunda, jauntily, easily, as if they had been no farther than the block just beyond, instead of racing about in a bounding cab. They approached the group as Phil turned away to read the note which had come so strangely into his hands. Dorothy wrote: “Dear Phil: I trust you to say nothing to Prince Ugo. I mean, do not intimate that I saw him yesterday when I went to drive with you. He would consider it an affront. I know it is not necessary to caution you, but I feel safe in doing so. You will pardon me, I am sure. My conduct, as well as yours, when we look at it calmly in an afterlight, was quite extraordinary. So fully do I trust him and so well does he love me that I know this note comes to you inviolate. “D.” Phil's brain was in a whirl. He glanced at the handsome face of Dorothy's noble lover and then at his swarthy fellow countrymen. Could they be plotters? Could he be hand-in-hand with those evil-looking men? He had delivered the note, and yet he so feared its recipient that he was employing questionable means to dispose of him. There could be no doubt as to the genuineness of the note. It was from Dorothy, and the prince had borne it to him direct from her hand. “An invitation to dinner?” asked the prince, laughing easily. “Miss Garrison is alarmingly fond of Mr. Quentin, and I begin to feel the first symptoms of jealousy. Pardon me, I should not speak of her here, even in jest.” So sincere was his manner that the Americans felt a strange respect for him. The same thought flashed through the minds of both: “He is not a blackguard, whatever else he may be.” But up again came the swift thought of Courant and his ugly companions, and the indisputable evidence that the first named, at least, was a paid agent of the man who stood before them, now the prince, once the singer in far away Brazil. “The mention of dinner recalls me to affairs of my own,” continued Ugo. “To-morrow night I expect a few friends here to dine, and I have the honor to ask you all to be among my guests. We shall sit down at nine o'clock, and I only exact a promise that the end may come within a week thereafter.”