“My word,” said the astonished Mr. Denby. “Fancy a chap like that being content to figure as one of the mob. He has the grand manner of an Indian prince.” Jimmy looked up at him quickly. “It’s moved and seconded that we make him one,” he said. “What’s that?” “All in favor of the motion signify their assent by saying ‘Aye.’ Aye! Contrary—no. The ayes have it and the motion is carried. What’ll we call him?” “I must confess that I don’t grasp the significance of what you mean,” said the puzzled Mr. Denby. “You will,” returned Jimmy as he led the way out to the front of the house again. “I’m goin’ to give you a little playmate on this trip if I can get Bartlett to go along. Local color stuff. You’ve slipped me another grand little idea, old man. It’s a bear.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Chapter Twenty-Six Prince Rajput Singh, the mythical only son of the Nazir of Hydrabad, descended on Chicago two weeks later accompanied by J. Herbert Denby, the distinguished authority on Far Eastern affairs. Their arrival at the Senate Hotel just before the dinner hour was a spectacular divertissement, to say the least, and one well calculated to make the unsuspecting general public sit up and take notice. His Royal Highness wore a great gray cloak when he passed through the main entrance of the hotel flanked on his right by the impeccable Mr. Denby and preceded by two massive and upstanding Hindus whose bearded faces were frozen into a semblance of stoical indifference that was as grim and forbidding as a box-office man’s impenetrable and imperturbable mask. On his head he wore a white turban trimmed with golden braid and his feet were encased in richly embroidered red slippers with turned-up toes. He paused for a moment, surveying with a condescending air the crowd of gaping men which filled the lobby, and then clapped his hands sharply twice. The Hindu attendants moved into position back of him. Another pause and then, with a gesture of surpassing elegance he dropped the cloak from his shoulders into their waiting arms. No Roman emperor had ever done it better, Mr. Denby thought to himself. The prince stood revealed in a gorgeous silken robe which was such a shimmering mass of color that it almost made one blink to look at it. Purples, flaming shades of orange and greens which seemed to suggest the rank lush foliage of some tropical jungle were the predominating shades. The robe was admirably designed to set off to the best advantage the dark and finely chiseled features of His Royal Highness, who greeted the manager of the hotel with an air of haughty reserve that was positively imperial in its implications.