“Well, suppose you put yourself to rights a bit. Hicks is seeing after breakfast. Will a pocket-comb be of any service to you? And when you feel quite equal to it--not before, mind, by any means--I should be interested to know what got you into this fix.” Helene, tugging at her hair with the comb, stopped suddenly, and turned upon him a face full of horror. “Nym, I had forgotten it for the moment, but it is almost as bad as the worst we have imagined. I have seen the dear Count twice, and he didn’t know me. He is--mad.” “Do you mean that he’s anywhere here?” cried Usk, springing up. “No; I lost him again. It was in trying to trace him that I came to this place. He is under the care of a dreadful doctor, who has a number of Dardanians to keep guard over him, and he thinks he is Prince Shishman Pelenko, and that people are plotting against his life.” “Be quick with your hair,” said Usk, “and you can tell Hicks everything at the same time as me. He may think of something that ought to be done at once.” But when Helene told the story of her doings the day before at the open-air breakfast table, Mr Hicks was as much at a loss as Usk to know what to do next, and sat silent and meditative, even while devouring his food at his usual speed. His experience as a war-correspondent had taught him never to neglect the chance of a good meal, and his skill in foraging had succeeded in providing one even in this unpromising spot. The table, which he had requisitioned from the custom-house, was placed in the open space in front of the post-office, the only flat piece of ground in the whole village, apparently, and the villagers stood round and watched the meal with much interest. When it was over, Usk held an open-air court of justice, and prompted by Helene, paid the postmaster for the telegram, and his wife for the night’s lodging--much to her distress, for she would only accept the money to buy something for her children. Petros the waggoner was less diffident, and received his silver with pride, saying he would give it to his sweetheart to sew on her cap; and the customs-officer was so anxious to press his own claims to a reward that Usk at last yielded, advising him to buy a German dictionary. When this was settled, the horses were brought out again, and the visitors departed, their hosts speeding them on their way with a _feu-de-joie_ of revolver-shots, which was gratifying, if a little alarming. Usk was driving Helene in the buggy, and presently Mr Hicks rode up close beside them. “Lady Usk,” he said, “there’s a question or two I’d like to have you answer if you don’t mind. You said Count Mortimer was moving his hands in a queer sort of a way when he stood on the doorstep. Can you show me just how he did it?” “Something like this,” said Helene, imitating the movements as well as she could remember them. “Is that so?” asked Mr Hicks, and nodded gravely. “What is it?” asked Helene, alarmed by his tone.