“You believe it! Why not?” he cried excitedly. “Your father, the dear Lord Havensea, loved us. He was our friend. His representations at St. James’s saved us once. You inherited his love. We are in peril now.” “Ah,” said I, “the lost heir.” “He is out there under that streak of smoke.” “He was the Comte de Troisétoilles?” “Yes. The French singer is Russian. You understand?” “Kidnapped! Scratch a French soprano and you will find a Russian. My General!” I was indeed sorry for him. He was honest, was this man of granite. He loved his country. And Prince Paul—“Royal robes should cover men, not flattered fools.” “You understand. The great game is lost. I love Ertaria as I love nothing else. I would pour out my blood willingly for her. That would be nothing. I have been the guardian of her honor. That was everything. And now the hand of the greedy Bear is stretched out for it. And it is lost. At least five minutes ago I said it was lost. But now you—you can save it—the great game, the honor of Ertaria, the independence, the life-blood!” “I! My dear General, I am a tired English peer recovering from a surfeit of municipal and parochial addresses.” “You—only you. You are an Englishman, you speak Ertarian, you resemble the Prince Paul somewhat; he is unknown in Ertaria. You are out of love with your own identity; you long for something else, for some other life——” “My dear General, speak out the whole of your madness.” “Come, Lord Havensea, and hold the throne!” I was staggered, astounded. For a moment I watched the smoke becoming thinner and thinner. Suddenly it seemed to pop out. It was of course a trick of the imagination. “You are an Englishman—therefore you have courage.” It was transcendent flattery. A throne! “It is madness, my General,” I said. His eyes sparkled. “It is the madness we love,” he said softly. “And it is for the country, my country. The poor fool will come back. Don’t let it be too late. Keep the throne for him—and for us, for the Ertarian children unborn that they be not born the slaves of the Muscovite. You have read the history of Poland?” “It is folly, but—” I commenced. “The train starts tonight, my Prince, at eleven. The West Station. I will make all things ready.” The General looked out at the winking sun. The real Prince was kidnapped, but in his dire need Fate had tossed him a pseudo one. It was the wildest of folly, of course, but once seriously embarked upon, it was remarkable how smoothly it ran. I returned to the hotel, paid my bill, sent my valet home to England, and met the General at the station. I entered the first-class compartment a private English gentleman—even my poor little title left in the custody of my lawyers in Ely Place—and across the Ertarian frontier I stepped out Paul V.