"At least," said Collins, yielding the ground grudgingly, "you must remember always to keep on your sick-togs when you do go out, and to try to look a little less scandalously healthy than you are. Now, if you'd kept on your wraps when you jumped out of the chair--" "How was I to kick a dog with a rug around my legs? You fellows don't give me credit for what I did do. I'd just got into a most interesting conversation with those girls, when up came a fellow whom I knew instinctively to be Markeld." He stopped as he caught the others' astounded gaze. "Yes, Markeld!" he repeated, defiantly. "I've an idea that he is the owner of the dog. I suppose I should have sent James to inquire who the dog belonged to before I ventured forth!" "No matter," said Collins, impatiently. "What did you do?" "I was guilty of unpardonable rudeness," answered Vernon. "I broke away from those girls as though they had the plague, jumped into my chair, and buried myself behind my newspaper. They must have thought I'd escaped from somewhere." "So Markeld didn't see you, it doesn't matter what they thought," remarked Collins. "Oh, doesn't it?" "Surely you're not going to run any further risks for the sake of a girl more or less!" "My dear Collins!" said Vernon, with chill politeness; "I have always suspected that a course in diplomacy sucked the blood out of a man and substituted ice-water in its stead. Now I know it. Permit me to add that you have not seen the girl--either girl--though I don't suppose that would make the slightest difference." "May I inquire what you propose to do?" asked Collins, flushing a little. "I propose to cultivate the acquaintance of the beautiful Americans in every way I can. After all, what does it matter to me who rules over a little twopenny duchy called Schloshold-Markheim?" "I suppose your promise is of equal indifference to you!" "Damn my promise! See here, Collins; don't push me too far; the worm will turn. Of course, I'll keep my promise; but don't irritate me. I'm all on edge over this thing now--a little more, and I'll be capable of doing something--" A tap at the door interrupted him, and he disappeared between two curtains into the inner room, where an invalid chair, buried in wraps, stood by the window. Near it was a little table covered with medicine bottles, glasses, spoons--in a word, all the paraphernalia of prolonged and serious illness. Blake opened the door and took the card that was presented to him. "The Prince of Markeld," he said, looking at it. "Ah, yes; you will tell His Highness that there has been no change in the condition of Lord Vernon, who thanks him for his kind inquiries." He closed the door and turned back into the room. "Now, what do you think that means?" he asked, of Collins. "That's the second time today. He's getting importunate." Collins stared out of the window gloomily.