The private breakfast-room of the Presidential palace was a small but lofty apartment. The walls were hung with tapestries; over the doors weapons of ancient type and history were arranged in elaborate patterns. The great French windows were deeply set in the wall, and the bright light of the morning was softened by heavy crimson curtains. Like the rest of the house it wore an official aspect. The windows opened on to the stone terrace, and those who passed through them experienced a feeling of relief in exchanging the severe splendours of the palace for the beautiful confusion of the garden, where between the spreading trees and slender palms the sparkling waters of the harbour were displayed. The table, which was set for two, was comfortably small and well arranged. The generous revenue which it had long been the principle of the Lauranian Republic to bestow on her First Magistrate enabled the President to live in a style of elegance and luxury, and to enjoy the attractions of good silver, fresh-cut flowers, and an excellent cook. But it was with a clouded brow that Molara met his wife at breakfast on the morning after the events which have just been chronicled. "Bad news,--tiresome news again, dear," he said as, sitting down and depositing a handful of papers on the table, he signed to the servants to leave the room. Lucile experienced a feeling of intense relief. After all she would not have to tell him the secret she had learned. "Has he started?" she asked incautiously. "Yes, last night; but he will be stopped." "Thank heaven for that!" Molara looked at her in amazement. "What do you mean? Why are you glad that the Admiral and the fleet are prevented from carrying out my orders?" "The fleet!" "Good gracious! What did you think I meant?" he asked impatiently. A loophole of escape presented itself. She ignored his question. "I am glad the fleet is stopped because I think they will be wanted here, now that the city is so unsettled." "Oh," said the President shortly,--suspiciously, she thought. To cover her retreat she asked a question. "Why are they stopped?" Molara pulled out a Press telegram slip from among his papers. "_Port Said, September 9th, 6.0 a.m._," he said, reading; "_British steam-collier Maude, 1,400 tons, grounded this morning in canal, which is in consequence blocked for traffic. Every effort is being made to clear the fairway. Accident is believed to be due to the silting up of channel caused by extreme draught of H.B.M.S. Aggressor which passed through last night._" He added: "They know their business, these English pigs." "You think they have done it on purpose?" "Of course." "But the fleet is not there yet." "It will be there to-morrow night." "But why should they block the channel now,--why not wait?"