“Yes,” replied Cabot grimly. “Then did you not find the body, and the note pinned with a dagger?” “Yes,” said his inquisitor. “That was what aroused my curiosity.” “But the note told the facts,” exclaimed the startled young prince. “Yes?” said Myles. “And, as I remember it, the words were merely: ‘This is what did the deed. I came too late.—Toron, King of Cupia.’ That explains nothing. It does not even state _who_ killed little Kew.” Cabot snapped his words short with an air of finality. A look of horror gradually spread over Toron’s face, as he stared at the other. “My Builder!” he exclaimed, “you don’t mean to say you think that _I_ did it.” “This is treason!” Hah Babbuh declared in a determined tone. “Now see here,” interjected Poblath soothingly, “let’s get this straight. I don’t believe that our good friend from Minos is quite himself after all his hardships, but I can assure him that I saw the blow struck, and that Prince Toron had not then even arrived at Luno.” Toron and Cabot both collapsed limply, and looked at each other with pity in their eyes. “I, too, have suffered and am not myself,” said the young prince in extenuation. “Toron, cousin of my wife, forgive me,” replied Myles. Whereat Poblath, the philosopher, to relieve the strained situation, hastily suggested: “Come, Myles Cabot, tell us all that has happened to you these many days since we last saw you in my mangool at Kuana.” Cabot roused himself. “But no,” said he, “for I want first to hear the tale of my good friend Prince—er, King—Toron.” “Yes, yes, tell him,” said Poblath hurriedly. The boyish contender for the throne looked inquiringly around the circle, and, receiving several nods of approval, began: “It happened this way, Myles. The instant that my uncle was shot dead by my murderous brother at the Peace Day exercises, my first thought was of my beloved cousin, the Princess Lilla. I did not even stop to consider that the assassination had given me a claim to the throne. If I had paused, it might have occurred to me that the proper place to strike a blow for her safety was right there in the stadium, in an attack on the pretender Yuri. But, as it was, I had but one idea: Northward!” “I have had that idea myself,” Cabot interjected with a smile. The tension was broken, Poblath remarking dryly. “Great minds think alike.” “So,” the boy continued, “I rushed for the nearest exit, and gained my own plane before the fighting in the stadium got really under way. But, as I helicoptered up into the air, I noted that my fuel tanks were nearly out of alcohol. This meant stopping at the nearest filling-station, and a delay of many precious paraparths. Nevertheless there was no alternative. “The keeper of the station did not recognize me, but, noticing our family crest on the machine, he asked: ‘A supporter of Yuri?’ “This gave me an idea. “‘You, too?’ I replied. “He assented.