“We’ve reason to believe that he’s in the United States. He was until quite lately, at all events. Raising money on his expectations.” Anthony gave vent to a surprised whistle. “I get you,” said Anthony. “Michael was backed by England, Nicholas by America. In both countries a group of financiers are anxious to obtain the oil concessions. The Loyalist party adopted Michael as their candidate—now they’ll have to look elsewhere. Gnashing of teeth on the part of Isaacstein and Co. and Mr. George Lomax. Rejoicings in Wall Street. Am I right?” “You’re not far off,” said Superintendent Battle. “H’m!” said Anthony. “I almost dare swear that I know what you were doing in that copse.” The detective smiled, but made no reply. “International politics are very fascinating,” said Anthony, “but I fear I must leave you. I have an appointment in the schoolroom.” He strode briskly away towards the house. Inquiries of the dignified Tredwell showed him the way to the schoolroom. He tapped on the door and entered, to be greeted by squeals of joy. Guggle and Winkle immediately rushed at him and bore him in triumph to be introduced to Mademoiselle. For the first time, Anthony felt a qualm. Mademoiselle Brun was a small, middle-aged woman with a sallow face, pepper and salt hair, and a budding moustache! As the notorious foreign adventuress she did not fit into the picture at all. “I believe,” said Anthony to himself, “I’m making the most utter fool of myself. Never mind, I must go through with it now.” He was extremely pleasant to Mademoiselle, and she, on her part, was evidently delighted to have a good-looking young man invade her schoolroom. The meal was a great success. But that evening, alone in the charming bedchamber that had been allotted to him, Anthony shook his head several times. “I’m wrong,” he said to himself. “For the second time, I’m wrong. Somehow or other, I can’t get the hang of this thing.” He stopped in his pacing of the floor. “What the devil——” began Anthony. The door was being softly opened. In another minute a man had slipped into the room, and stood deferentially by the door. He was a big fair man, squarely built, with high Slavonic cheek-bones, and dreamy fanatic eyes. “Who the devil are you?” asked Anthony, staring at him. The man replied in perfect English. “I am Boris Anchoukoff.” “Prince Michael’s servant, eh?” “That is so. I served my master. He is dead. Now I serve you.” “It’s very kind of you,” said Anthony. “But I don’t happen to want a valet.” “You are my master now. I will serve you faithfully.” “Yes—but—look here—I don’t need a valet. I can’t afford one.” Boris Anchoukoff looked at him with a touch of scorn. “I do not ask for money. I served my master. So will I serve you—to the death!” Stepping quickly forward, he dropped on one knee, caught Anthony’s hand and placed it on his forehead. Then he rose swiftly and left the room as suddenly as he had come.