“I fancy,” she murmured, “that the person you are speaking of would not look at it in quite the same light.” “Has any one seen the evening paper?” the Duchess asked. “It is there any more news about that extraordinary murder?” “Nothing fresh in the early editions,” Sir Charles answered. “I think,” the Duchess declared, “that it is perfectly scandalous. Our police system must be in a disgraceful state. Tell me, Prince,--could anything like that happen in your country?” “Without doubt,” the Prince answered, “life moves very much in the East as with you here. Only with us,” he added a little thoughtfully, “there is a difference, a difference of which one is reminded at a time like this, when one reads your newspapers and hears the conversation of one’s friends.” “Tell us what you mean?” Penelope asked quickly. He looked at her as one might have looked at a child,--kindly, even tolerantly. He was scarcely so tall as she was, and Penelope’s attitude towards him was marked all the time with a certain frigidity. Yet he spoke to her with the quiet, courteous confidence of the philosopher who unbends to talk to a child. “In this country,” he said, “you place so high a value upon the gift of life. Nothing moves you so greatly as the killing of one man by another, or the death of a person whom you know.” “There is no tragedy in the world so great!” Penelope declared. The Prince shrugged his shoulders very slightly. “My dear Miss Morse,” he said, “it is so that you think about life and death here. Yet you call yourselves a Christian country--you have a very beautiful faith. With us, perhaps, there is a little more philosophy and something a little less definite in the trend of our religion. Yet we do not dress Death in black clothes or fly from his outstretched hand. We fear him no more that we do the night. It is a thing that comes--a thing that must be.” He spoke so softly, and yet with so much conviction, that it seemed hard to answer him. Penelope, however, was conscious of an almost feverish desire either to contradict him or to prolong the conversation by some means or other. “Your point of view,” she said, “is well enough, Prince, for those who fall in battle, fighting for their country or for a great cause. Don’t you think, though, that the horror of death is a more real thing in a case like this, where a man is killed in cold blood for the sake of robbery, or perhaps revenge?” “One cannot tell,” the Prince answered thoughtfully. “The battlefields of life are there for every one to cross. This mysterious gentleman who seems to have met with his death so unexpectedly--he, too, may have been the victim of a cause, knowing his dangers, facing them as a man should face them.” The Duchess sighed. “I am quite sure, Prince,” she said, “that you are a romanticist. But, apart from the sentimental side of it, do things like this happen in your country?”