The second waltz came, and—­Ah, well, with Stafford’s arm round her, with her head almost pillowed on his shoulder she was happy, and her fears, her vague doubts and presentiments fell from her.

“Ah, that was good,” she said, with a sigh.  “Do not forget—­the eleventh, dearest!  Take me to the prince—­he is over there.”

She dropped her curtsey to his royal highness, and Stafford left her with him.  As he made his way to the end of the room he saw Griffenberg and several of the other financiers in a group, as usual; and they were talking with even more than their ordinary enthusiasm and secretiveness.  Griffenberg caught his arm as he was passing.

“Heard the news, Mr. Orme?” he asked.

“No; what is it?” said Stafford.

Griffenberg smiled, but rather gravely.

“They say that the peerage will be announced to-night.”

Stafford nodded.  And Griffenberg after a stare at Stafford’s impassive face which evinced no flush of exultation, glanced at the others curiously, seemed about to add something, then checked himself and turned away, and as Stafford went on, said in a low voice to Wirsch: 

“Do you think he has heard?  Looked rather glum, didn’t he?”

The baron shrugged his shoulders.

“Don’t know.  He’s a shtrange sheentleman.  He keeps himself to himself doesh Mishter Shtafford.”

Stafford went on, and at one of the anterooms came upon Mr. Falconer.  He was standing looking on at the dancing with a grim countenance, and seemed lost in thought; so much so that he was almost guilty of a start when Stafford spoke to him.

“Yes!  Great crowd.  Just come in?  Father all right?”

“Quite well, thanks,” said Stafford, rather surprised by the question.

At that moment a servant brought a foreign cablegram to Falconer.  Falconer tore it open, glanced at it, and went pale.

“Anything the matter?” asked Stafford.

Falconer looked at him fixedly and curiously, then with a shake of his head moved away.

Stafford smoked a cigarette and sauntered back to the ballroom.  He passed the group of city men again, and caught a word or two in the baron’s gruff voice: 

“I want to know how we shtand!  The plow will shmash him; but the rest of us—­us who are in de shwim.  If de natives have risen—­”

But Stafford paid little heed—­forgot the words as soon as he had heard them; and went in search of his partner.  While he was dancing, he was aware of that peculiar stir, that flutter and wave of excitement which agitates a crowd when something momentous is happening.  He looked round and saw his father standing in the centre of a group of persons, men and women, who all seemed excited.  There was loud talking, and sudden and spasmodic movements as fresh auditors to the restless group came up hurriedly and curiously.

“What is the matter, Mr. Orme?” asked the girl with whom he was dancing.