The host had entered before them and now stood at the end of the room with the Admiral of the Squadron and the Ambassador of the latter's nation. Suddenly a young man pushed hastily through the press. He handed his chief a telegram. The Ambassador scanned it, changed color, and held it out to the Admiral with shaking hand. The Secretary who had brought it said something to the Foreign Minister, who turned instantly to give a quick order to a servant. The orchestra stopped with a crash. There was a dead hush over the brilliant room-full, broken only by the movement of the Squadron's officers as they came hurriedly forward beside their Admiral. All looked at the white-haired diplomatist who stood, his eyes full of tears, the pink telegram in his hand. He addressed the grave group of naval men. "Gentlemen," he said, in a low voice, "I have the great grief to announce the sudden death to-day of His Majesty, the King." He bowed to his host, and, followed by the Admiral and his officers, left the house. The Ambassadors and Ministers of the other powers, in order of their precedence, each with his glittering staff and their ladies about him, followed. The gaiety was over; it had ceased at the far-away echo of a nation's bells, tolling half a world away. * * * * * The great house was almost emptied of its guests when the solitary figure that had sat in the cherry-garden passed out along the deserted corridors. Daunt went utterly oblivious that its bright pageantry had departed. A feverish color was in his cheek and his eyes were dulled with a painful apathy. Count Voynich was lighting a cigarette in the cloak room as he entered. "_Sic transit!_" he said. "This calls a quick halt on the plans of the Squadron's entertainment, doesn't it!" There was no answer. Daunt was fumbling, from habit, for the lettered disk of wood in his pocket. "If the King could have lived a few weeks longer," said Voynich, "we'd have heard no more talk of trouble with Japan. He was a great peacemaker. The new regent may be less circumspect. What do you think?" No reply. He spoke again sharply. "I say, Miss Fairfax seems to be making a tremendous walkover, eh?" There was only silence. Daunt did not hear him. Voynich looked at his face, whistled softly under his breath, and went quietly away. CHAPTER XXXIX THE HEART OF BARBARA The Ambassador, standing by the mantel, looked thoughtfully at his wife. She sat in a big wicker chair, in a soft dressing-gown, her hands clasped over one knee in a pose very pretty and girlish. "Come!" he said good-humoredly. "You women are always imagining romances and broken hearts. Why, Barbara and Daunt haven't known each other long enough to fall in love." She looked at him quizzically. "Do you remember how long we had known each other when you--"