Anthony went on into the hotel, wondering, as he did so, what had inspired that searching glance. Nothing in it probably. The deep tan of his face was somewhat unusual looking amongst these pallid Londoners and it had attracted the fellow’s attention. He went up to his room and, led by a sudden impulse, crossed to the looking-glass and stood studying his face in it. Of the few friends of the old days—just a chosen few—was it likely that any of them would recognize him now if they were to meet him face to face? He shook his head slowly. When he had left London he had been just eighteen—a fair, slightly chubby boy, with a misleading seraphic expression. Small chance that the boy would be recognized in the lean, brown-faced man with the quizzical expression. The telephone beside the bed rang, and Anthony crossed to the receiver. “Hullo!” The voice of the desk clerk answered him. “Mr. James McGrath?” “Speaking.” “A gentleman has called to see you.” Anthony was rather astonished. “To see _me_?” “Yes, sir, a foreign gentleman.” “What’s his name?” There was a slight pause, and then the clerk said: “I will send up a page boy with his card.” Anthony replaced the receiver and waited. In a few minutes there was a knock on the door and a small page appeared bearing a card upon a salver. Anthony took it. The following was the name engraved upon it: BARON LOLOPRETJZYL. He now fully appreciated the desk clerk’s pause. For a moment or two he stood studying the card, and then made up his mind. “Show the gentleman up.” “Very good, sir.” In a few minutes the Baron _Lolopretjzyl_ was ushered into the room, a big man with an immense fan-like black beard and a high, bald forehead. He brought his heels together with a click, and bowed. “Mr. McGrath,” he said. Anthony imitated his movements as nearly as possible. “Baron,” he said. Then, drawing forward a chair. “Pray sit down. I have not, I think, had the pleasure of meeting you before?” “That is so,” agreed the Baron, seating himself. “It is my misfortune,” he added politely. “And mine also,” responded Anthony, on the same note. “Let us now to business come,” said the Baron. “I represent in London the Loyalist party of Herzoslovakia.” “And represent it admirably, I am sure,” murmured Anthony. The Baron bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment. “You are too kind,” he said stiffly. “Mr. McGrath, I will not from you conceal anything. The moment has come for the Restoration of the Monarchy, in abeyance since the martyrdom of His Most Gracious Majesty King Nicolas IV of blessed memory.” “Amen,” murmured Anthony. “I mean Hear, Hear.” “On the throne will be placed His Highness Prince Michael who the support of the British Government has.” “Splendid,” said Anthony. “It’s very kind of you to tell me all this.” “Everything arranged is—when you come here to trouble make.” The Baron fixed him with a stern eye. “My dear Baron,” protested Anthony.