Des Louvres was one of those who know human nature only by its weaknesses. Such men seldom come to grief, though they never come to greatness. He had been the first to perceive that Lord Alistair Stuart’s bankruptcy would change his point of view in certain respects, and to lay his plans accordingly. As soon as Stuart touched the bell-knob of Chestnut-Tree House--the door abstained from the indiscretion of a knocker--he was admitted by the Count’s confidential servant, a fellow whom it did not require the science of M. Bertillon to identify as a hardened criminal. Leclerc, as this respectable felon was called, received Lord Alistair with an exaggeration of his customary deference, and ushered him towards what Des Louvres called his cabinet. On the way he observed respectfully: “You will find Monsieur le Comte alone. His Royal Highness has not yet arrived.” He spoke in a sort of church whisper, as though the coming princeling already cast a shadow of awe before. Des Louvres came out to receive his visitor, whom he greeted with enthusiasm. “I am delighted you have managed to get here. Don Juan is most anxious to make your acquaintance.” Stuart had come to keep the appointment with a certain feeling of interest in the romance of Don Juan’s exalted claims, tempered with an insular distrust of foreign royalties and foreign decorations. His prejudice softened insensibly under the Count’s blandishments. “Has his father much of a party left?” he asked. “Undoubtedly a very strong one. The priesthood has never taken kindly to the constitutional dynasty, and you know that in those countries the Church is still a power.” “I suppose there is no prospect of his taking the field?” Stuart said wistfully, as he thought of what a glorious escape it would be from the ruins of his present life to take part in a romantic expedition to a sunburnt land, to recover a lost crown. The watchful Frenchman caught the note of yearning in Alistair’s voice, and his answer was tuned in sympathy. “On the contrary, there is every prospect just now. Not the father himself, of course--he is too old--but Don Juan as his representative. His father intends to abdicate in his favour, I believe.” “And you think he has a real chance?” asked Alistair. His eyes lit up as he pictured himself lying out on the wild sierras, making the camp-fire under the cork-trees at night, and in the daytime taking part in that great game whose stakes are death and renown. Already he was marching, crowned with myrtle, through Gothic cities bedight in flags and flowers, his ears deafened with the clang of joy bells and the roar of exultant throngs, and his veins throbbing with the intoxication of victory.