"But this is not business," Benstein pleaded. "Under the peculiar circumstances——" "Precisely," Harold interrupted dryly. "Under the peculiar circumstances you are going to accommodate us. Mr. Benstein, I fancy that you and I understand one another." Benstein’s eyes dropped, and the fat cigarette between his fingers trembled. He muttered the talisman word "business" again; but he was understood to agree to the terms offered. He was shakily eager to offer his distinguished guests refreshments of some kind, but Denvers dragged the Shan away. Once in the street, the latter stopped and demanded to know what the pantomime meant. "It’s pretty plain," Harold said. "Old Benstein hasn’t got your jewel at this moment." "Hasn’t got it? Do you mean to say that he...? Preposterous! But in the morning——" "In the morning it will be all right again. In the morning you will see quite another Benstein—a Benstein who has changed his mind, and will refuse to part with the Blue Stone so long as a single penny remains unpaid. I startled him to-night. I got astride of that figment of a conscience of his. But I am going to help you to clench the business. Come along." "Where are you going to?" the Shan asked feebly. "Back to your hotel. You are going to dress up in your State war-paint and proceed at once to Lady Frobisher’s dress-ball. I suppose you’ve any amount of dresses and that kind of thing—I mean you could rig out a staff, if necessary?" "I’ve got all the mummery for going to Court, if that is what you mean." "Good," Harold cried. "I’ll just step into this chemist’s and get a few pigments necessary to the successful performance of my little comedy. You are going to the dance as the Shan of Koordstan, and I am going carefully disguised as Aben Abdullah, your suite." *CHAPTER XV.* *HUNT THE SLIPPER.* A fine perspiration stood out on Lefroy’s face, he swayed to and fro like one in an advanced stage of intoxication, the Count was utterly unmanned for the moment. As his brain and eye cleared presently, Frobisher came out of the mist in the semblance of a man who was manifestly enjoying himself. "I pray you sit down," he said in his silkiest manner. "My dear Count, the heat has been too much for you. The hero of a thousand adventures succumbs to a high thermometer—it is possible to choke a Hercules with an orange pip. A little of the old brandy, eh?" Frobisher’s face was perfectly grave now, only the dilation of his pupils and the faint quivering of his lips denoted his amusement. Lefroy forced a smile in reply. He was conscious of the fact that that little demon opposite was reading his inmost thoughts. "Just a little of the brandy," Frobisher said coaxingly. "The kind that I keep for my very dear friends. Ah, I am sure that is better. Now let us sit down and smoke, and forget the giddy side outside."