“Would it spoil your plans if you told me how you intend to do it? I can’t imagine how you will manage.” Cyril smiled pleasantly. “There is a famine in Scythia at this moment,” he said; “so much you know already. You know also that it must be pretty bad for the Scythian papers to be allowed to acknowledge its existence at all. There is also a rising in Central Asia that looks threatening. The sufferers from the famine must be helped, and the rising must be put down, but where is the money to come from? Such hoards as the peasantry may have amassed in good years are exhausted by this time, and there are no Jews left in the rural districts to borrow from. The Government will have to step in, but though the war-chest is full, its contents must be kept intact in view of a possible European war, and there is very little money in the country otherwise. To improve matters, certain shrewd gentlemen in America have arranged a corner in cereals, with a special eye to this famine and the consequent demand. Now do you see where we come in, when it becomes evident that there is no money to be obtained in all Europe if our scheme is thwarted at Czarigrad?” “You mean to starve them out?” said Mansfield, with more than a touch of horror in his tone. “By no means. We take our pound of flesh, which is Palestine, that’s all.” “What a queer-looking old chap that is over there, Count!” said Mansfield to Cyril, as they were taking their walk one morning about a week after the Emperor’s arrival. “He might be a stage brigand.” Cyril glanced in the direction he indicated. “Why, that is my venerable friend Prince Mirkovics!” he cried. “Who would ever have dreamt of meeting him here? I thought he never left Thracia.” He crossed the promenade with a rapid step, and accosted the old man whose truculent air and fierce white moustache had attracted Mansfield’s attention. The garb of civilisation sat awkwardly upon Prince Mirkovics, and it was obvious that he felt ill at ease without the pistols and dagger which adorned his girdle when in Thracian costume; but the scornful frown with which he had been contemplating the vanities of Ludwigsbad vanished when he caught sight of Cyril, whom he greeted with beaming smiles. “I will join you in your walk, Count, if you will allow me,” he said, when Mansfield had been duly introduced to him. “I have a good deal to tell you.” “Two years’ Thracian news!” said Cyril lightly. “I have avoided hearing or reading anything of the kind, on principle, since I left Thracia, but I felt all the time that it was only accumulating, to overwhelm me some day.” “His Excellency loves to jest,” remarked Prince Mirkovics solemnly to Mansfield. “Perhaps,” he added, turning again to Cyril, “you are not even aware that his Majesty intends to visit Ludwigsbad? I believe he was to arrive to-day.”