would be at war with his--that way lay slavery! He brushed the very thought from him. As he reached the door of his house in St. James’ Square, it opened slowly before him. He had brought his own servants from his own country, and in their master’s absence sleep was not for them. His butler spoke to him in his own language. The Prince nodded and passed on. On his study table--a curious note of modernism where everything seemed to belong to a bygone world--was a cablegram. He tore it open. It consisted of one word only. He let the thin paper fall fluttering from his fingers. So the time was fixed! Then Soto came gliding noiselessly into the room, fully dressed, with tireless eyes but wan face,--Soto, the prototype of his master, the most perfect secretary and servant evolved through all the years. “Master,” he said, “there has been trouble here. An Englishman came with this card.” The Prince took it, and read the name of Inspector Jacks. “Well?” he murmured. “The man asked questions,” Soto continued. “We spoke English so badly that he was puzzled. He went away, but he will come again.” The Prince smiled, and laid his hand almost caressingly upon the other’s shoulder. “It is of no consequence, Soto,” he said,--“no consequence whatever.” CHAPTER XIV. AN ENGAGEMENT “Your rooms, Prince, are wonderful,” Penelope said to him. “I knew that you were a man of taste, but I did not know that you were also a millionaire.” He laughed softly. “In my country,” he answered, “there are no millionaires. The money which we have, however, we spend, perhaps a little differently. But, indeed, none of my treasures here have cost me anything. They have come to me through more generations than I should care to reckon up. The bronze idol, for instance, upon my writing case is four hundred years old, to my certain knowledge, and my tapestries were woven when in this country your walls went bare.” “What I admire more than anything,” the Duchess declared, “is your beautiful violet tone.” “I am glad,” he answered, “that you like my coloring. Some people have thought it sombre. To me dark colors indoors are restful.” “Everything about the whole place is restful,” Penelope said,--“your servants with their quaint dresses and slippered feet, your thick carpets, the smell of those strange burning leaves, and, forgive me if I say so, your closed windows. I suppose in time I should have a headache. For a little while it is delicious.” The Prince sighed.