The apartment, large and low, was panelled with bird’s-eye maple; divans ran along the walls, and above the divans orange curtains were drawn; the floor was hidden by the skins of wild African animals; in one corner was a Steinway piano, with the score of “The Orchid” open on the music-stand; in another lay a large, flat bowl filled with blossoms that do not bloom in England; the illumination, soft and yellow, came from behind the cornice of the room, being reflected therefrom downwards by the cream-coloured ceiling. Only by a faintly-heard tremor of some gigantic but repressed force, and by a very slight unsteadiness on the part of the floor, could you have guessed that you were aboard a steam-yacht and not in a large, luxurious house. Lecky, having arrayed the millionaire in overcoat, muffler, crush-hat, and white gloves, drew aside a _portière_ and followed him up a flight of stairs. They stood on deck, surrounded by the mild but treacherous Algerian night. From the white double funnels a thin smoke oozed. On the white bridge, the second mate, a spectral figure, was testing the engine-room signals, and the sharp noise of the bell seemed to desecrate the mysterious silence of the bay; but there was no other sign of life; the waiting launch was completely hidden under the high bows of the _Claribel_. In distant regions of the deck, glimmering beams came oddly up from below, throwing into relief some part of a boat on its davits or a section of a mast. Cecil looked about him, at the serried lights of the Boulevard Carnot, and the riding lanterns of the vessels in the harbour. Away to the left on the hill, a few gleams showed Mustapha Supérieure, where the great English hotels are; and ten miles further east, the lighthouse on Cape Matifou flashed its eternal message to the Mediterranean. He was on the verge of feeling poetic. “Suppose anything happens while you are at this dance, sir?” Lecky jerked his thumb in the direction of a small steamer which lay moored scarcely a cable’s-length away, under the eastern jetty. “Suppose----?” He jerked his thumb again in exactly the same direction. His tone was still pessimistic and cynical. “You had better fire our beautiful brass cannon,” Cecil replied. “Have it fired three times. I shall hear it well enough up at Mustapha.” He descended carefully into the launch, and was whisked puffingly over the dark surface of the bay to the landing-stage, where he summoned a fiacre. “Hôtel St. James,” he instructed the driver. And the driver smiled joyously; everyone who went to the Hôtel St. James was rich and lordly, and paid well, because the hill was long and steep and so hard on the poor Algerian horses. II.