Refreshments were served. The table was loaded with strange delicacies. Roasted fish stuffed with berries swimming in the fresh juice of grapes; wild game sliced with crushed nuts, and meat spiced with rich, tropical fruit, tempted the appetite, yet everything was cold—and Saxe. longed for soup. The wine was the same brand Potolili had been so lavish with, and though of a clear, sparkling crystal, was searching. Octrogona, in his dining, was civilized, a _bon vivant_. The service was excellent, putting us on our mettle and rousing to action our rusty table etiquette. After dining Octrogona expressed a wish to examine the car. We placed it at his disposal. He examined everything with much curiosity, and for an old string of wax pearls, presented Saxe. with an armlet carved from quartz ornamented with five flashing emeralds. “You’re trading at a bargain, old boy,” Sheldon told him, but he was frowned to silence and found solace brewing his coffee, which he wanted Octrogona to taste. Octrogona seemed doubtful of the cup handed to him, but inhaling the aroma, drank with relish. The flavor tickled his palate, and he begged for some of the beans. We decided the cultivation of coffee had become a lost industry. It seemed impossible these enlightened people had never discovered it. We returned to the tent and were served with syrupy liqueur in large silver thimbles, and some queer little cakes that tasted like sweetened mud. We avoided the cakes, but the liqueur! what a bouquet! and how it flushed us! Even Octrogona, who no doubt was seasoned, seemed affected. His eyes flashed, his lips thickened voluptuously, and his tongue loosened confidentially. With a sigh he told us of Potolili’s daughter, which originally was not his intention. “The most beautiful woman in the world!” he exclaimed with amorous enthusiasm. “The women of Centauri are divine, but Potolili’s daughter is—heaven!” “She is your prisoner,” I blurted out before Saxe. could prevent. Octrogona eyed me keenly for a second, then replied: “No, I am her prisoner—her slave!” “Hum! got it bad!” murmured Sheldon, ever alert to mix things. “As you know of Potolili’s daughter,” Octrogona continued, eying me severely, “and undoubtedly believe she is my prisoner, which is false, perhaps you can give me some information concerning my sister Gona.” “I cannot,” I replied. “Potolili did not mention your sister, though he told of the abduction of his daughter.”