“I do depend on you,” she declared gratefully. “But what are we to do?” “I am going out of this room, and you are coming with me,” returned the detective promptly. They went out of the ballroom just as another dance began, passing through several of the carpeted corridors, which were generally used by ballroom guests for promenade. Nothing was to be seen of the two Indian princes until they reached the end of one corridor and turned a corner into a narrower one. As they did this, the two men stepped out of a doorway directly in their path. With a half scream the girl stepped behind Nick Carter, still holding his arm for protection. “Pardon me!” said the shorter man of the pair, in a somewhat truculent tone. “I should like to have a word with you.” “With me? Why, my dear sir, I don’t believe I know you,” responded Nick carelessly. “We have no time for joking, your highness,” retorted the man, in a thick, angry voice. “Prince Miguel and I have been trying to get to you for several days. We found out, at a costumer’s, this afternoon, that you would be at this ball to-night.” “Once more, let me ask, who are you?” was Nick Carter’s rejoinder. “I don’t know that you have any reason to be interested in my doings or whereabouts.” With a strange oath, the taller man interposed, jumping forward and pushing his companion aside. “What is the use of this pretense?” he growled. “I know you are my cousin, and I want to know what you intend to do when you get back home to Joyalita.” Nick Carter permitted himself a laugh of intense amusement--a laugh that evidently grated on the other person’s nerves, for he broke out with another oath--in Spanish, or something like it. “Either you have mistaken me for somebody else, or you are crazy,” declared Nick. “This lady and I want to pass on.” Nick Carter pushed his way forward, regardless of the gesticulating stranger. Together, and with a lightninglike movement, the two men flung themselves upon him. Nick had anticipated something of the kind, however, and as the shorter man came to the proper distance, the detective shot out his hard American fist straight from the shoulder. There was a loud splat, as the blow landed on the masked face, and down went Don Solado--for it turned out to be he--flat on his back, evidently knocked out. “What?” bellowed the taller man, Prince Miguel. “Is that your game? Well, we’ll see!” He flung his arms around the detective, trying to force him backward. It was a sharp tussle, but there were few men who could overcome Nick Carter in a wrestling match, either impromptu or otherwise. While the trembling girl watched the fierce, but almost silent, combat, her escort gradually made his adversary give way. At last Nick got the other man where he wanted him. “Had enough?” asked the detective. “No! Curse you! I’ll----”