It was of this story that Marco was thinking as he walked, and perhaps the thoughts that filled his mind expressed themselves in his face in some way which attracted attention. As he was nearing Buckingham Palace, a distinguished-looking well-dressed man with clever eyes caught sight of him, and, after looking at him keenly, slackened his pace as he approached him from the opposite direction. An observer might have thought he saw something which puzzled and surprised him. Marco didn't see him at all, and still moved forward, thinking of the shepherds and the prince. The well-dressed man began to walk still more slowly. When he was quite close to Marco, he stopped and spoke to him--in the Samavian language. "What is your name?" he asked. Marco's training from his earliest childhood had been an extraordinary thing. His love for his father had made it simple and natural to him, and he had never questioned the reason for it. As he had been taught to keep silence, he had been taught to control the expression of his face and the sound of his voice, and, above all, never to allow himself to look startled. But for this he might have started at the extraordinary sound of the Samavian words suddenly uttered in a London street by an English gentleman. He might even have answered the question in Samavian himself. But he did not. He courteously lifted his cap and replied in English: "Excuse me?" The gentleman's clever eyes scrutinized him keenly. Then he also spoke in English. "Perhaps you do not understand? I asked your name because you are very like a Samavian I know," he said. "I am Marco Loristan," the boy answered him. The man looked straight into his eyes and smiled. "That is not the name," he said. "I beg your pardon, my boy." He was about to go on, and had indeed taken a couple of steps away, when he paused and turned to him again. "You may tell your father that you are a very well-trained lad. I wanted to find out for myself." And he went on.