"Why, say, Prince," said Mr. Scobell, "this is lucky. I been looking for you. I just been to the Palace, and the main guy there told me you had gone out." "I did. And I met your stepdaughter." Mr. Scobell was astonished. Fate was certainly smoothing his way if it arranged meetings between Betty and the Prince before he had time to do it himself. There might be no need for the iron hand after all. "You did?" he said. "Say, how the Heck did you come to do that? What did you know about Betty?" "Miss Silver and I had met before, in America, when I was in college." Mr. Scobell slapped his thigh joyously. "Gee, it's all working out like a fiction story in the magazines!" "Is it?" said John. "How? And, for the matter of that, what?" Mr. Scobell answered question with question. "Say, Prince, you and Betty were pretty good friends in the old days, I guess?" John looked at him coldly. "We won't discuss that, if you don't mind," he said. His tone annoyed Mr. Scobell. Off came the velvet glove, and the iron hand displayed itself. His green eyes glowed dully and the tip of his nose wriggled, as was its habit in times of emotion. "Is that so?" he cried, regarding John with disfavor. "Well, I guess! Won't discuss it! You gotta discuss it, Your Royal Texas League Highness! You want making a head shorter, my bucko. You--" John's demeanor had become so dangerous that he broke off abruptly, and with an unostentatious movement, as of a man strolling carelessly about his private sanctum, put himself within easy reach of the door handle. He then became satirical. "Maybe Your Serene, Imperial Two-by-Fourness would care to suggest a subject we can discuss?" John took a step forward. "Yes, I will," he said between his teeth. "You were talking to Miss Silver about me this morning. She told me one or two of the things you said, and they opened my eyes. Until I heard them, I had not quite understood my position. I do now. You said, among other things, that I was your hired man." "It wasn't intended for you to hear," said Mr. Scobell, slightly mollified, "and Betty shouldn't oughter have handed it to you. I don't wonder you feel raw. I wouldn't say that sort of thing to a guy's face. Sure, no. Tact's my middle name. But, since you have heard it, well--!" "Don't apologize. You were quite right. I was a fool not to see it before. No description could have been fairer. You might have said much more. You might have added that I was nothing more than a steerer for a gambling hell." "Oh, come, Prince!" There was a knock at the door. A footman entered, bearing, with a detached air, as if he disclaimed all responsibility, a letter on a silver tray. Mr. Scobell slit the envelope, and began to read. As he did so his eyes grew round, and his mouth slowly opened till his cigar stump, after hanging for a moment from his lower lip, dropped off like an exhausted bivalve and rolled along the carpet. "Prince," he gasped, "she's gone. Betty!"