“Only watch me, and when I succeed in approaching Texelius, distract the attention of the detectives for a second or so.” “Very well, Prince.” The secretary was not without practice in work of the kind, so that when Dr Texelius had finished haggling with his porter over his charge, he found himself confronted by a dapper gentleman, exquisitely dressed, whose grey moustache was waxed into points of needle-like sharpness. “I have the honour of addressing the Herr Professor Texelius?” said the stranger hurriedly in German, laying one finger on his lips. “I am that most shamefully ill-used man,” snorted Dr Texelius. “You would like to expose the Mortimer?” The philosopher’s eyes sparkled. “Only give me the chance!” The other drew out a sealed envelope, and slipped it into his hand. “That will provide you with the means of doing so. Hide it at once. I am Soudaroff.” With a dexterity which a professional conjurer might have envied, Dr Texelius made the packet vanish up his sleeve. “It shall be done,” he said. “When does your paper appear?” “The day after to-morrow.” “Let it come out then without fail. Any delay will spoil the effect.” “It shall be inserted.” The colloquy, which had scarcely lasted a moment, was over, and the speakers moved apart, Prince Soudaroff to return to his godson, and Dr Texelius to take his place in the train, chuckling with delight over the thought that he had now the means of ruining Cyril and annoying the Chevalier Goldberg at one blow. His revenge would draw down upon him instant punishment from the Chevalier, he knew, but he could afford to disregard that in the joy of the moment. CHAPTER VIII. “A KIND OF WILD JUSTICE.” The business which had called Cyril to Vindobona once ended, he returned to Ludwigsbad with Mansfield, to find awaiting him at the hotel a note from Princess Soudaroff, couched in very urgent terms, and entreating him to come and see her that evening, as she was leaving the baths the next day with Usk and Philippa. “Do you care to come with me, Mansfield?” he asked, tossing the note across to his secretary. The smile of gratification which overspread Mansfield’s features at the question disappeared with startling suddenness, for the cuts on his face were still painful, and he murmured dolefully that he was not fit to go anywhere. “Didn’t know you were so keen about your personal appearance,” said Cyril. “Nonsense! come at once.” His objections disposed of in this summary fashion, Mansfield submitted with the best grace in the world when Cyril took him by the arm and fairly led him out of the house. Arrived at the gate of Princess Soudaroff’s lodgings, the prisoner found himself suddenly released.