The Pretender at once began to talk about the prospects of his cause, not saying anything directly about the proposed expedition, but giving his listeners to understand that he hoped before very long to receive them more suitably in the palace of his ancestors. The Prince’s French being rather too fluent for some of his British hearers, and theirs not quite fluent enough, Des Louvres helped out the conversation with hints and explanations of his own, now throwing in a respectful question, and now reminding Don Juan of some point he had passed over. Alistair had suffered from a sense of awkwardness during the previous ritual, and he still felt half ashamed whenever he glanced at the gaudy ribbon on his shoulders. But as the conversation went forward his reserve melted away, his eyes began to sparkle, and he questioned the Pretender, as eagerly as good manners allowed, on the state of the country and the chances of a campaign. Don Juan noticed the interest he had aroused, and his tone towards Lord Alistair Stuart became evidently more friendly, while the Chevalier Vane as evidently bored him by disquisitions on the art and literature of the promised land. Finally, after throwing a look at Des Louvres, and receiving an imperceptible nod in return, the Prince rose to his feet, saying, as he did so: “I shall hope to receive you again before long, gentlemen. Will you remain behind a few minutes, Milord Stuart? I have something to ask you.” The others were obliged to take their leave, the Chevalier remarking with some bitterness to his brother on their way home that even royalty in these days is tainted with the Philistinism of the triumphant middle class. Another bottle of champagne was opened, and as soon as Stuart had emptied his glass, Des Louvres approached the real object of the conference. “The Prince wants to buy arms for his partisans, as I told you, and he is over here in order to raise the money. I have taken the liberty of saying that I think you may be willing to assist him.” “I!” exclaimed the astonished Alistair. The Frenchman bent forward, and murmured softly: “I ventured to tell His Royal Highness that you were on intimate terms with the head of the South American Bank.” “Mendes!” “Exactly. The suggestion is that you should sound Mendes on the Prince’s behalf.” Alistair sat as one dumbfounded, and for some moments the other two watched him without speaking a word. A repugnance, which he could hardly explain to himself, battled within him against yielding to the Pretender’s request. Mendes was his intimate acquaintance; Mendes sat at his table, and entertained him in return. He was a banker; it was his business to grant loans, and this was a loan for an object which Alistair heartily sympathized with. And yet he felt he would have gone to anyone rather than Mendes. Des Louvres understood the silent struggle better, perhaps, than Alistair himself. He also knew the way to end it.