The nobleman sprang, instead, the other way, but he did not reach what he sought.  Mr. Heatherbloom’s arm described an arc; the application was made with expert skill and effectiveness.  His excellency swayed, relaxed, and, this time, remained where he fell.  Mr. Heatherbloom locked the door leading into the dining salle—­the other, opening upon the deck, he had already tried and found fastened—­and drew closer the draperies before the windows.  Then returning to the prince, he prodded gently the prostrate figure.

“Get up!” His excellency moved, then staggered with difficulty to his feet and gazed around.  “You’ll be able to think all right in a moment,” said Heatherbloom.  “Sit down.  Only,” in crisp tones, “I wouldn’t move from the chair if I were you.  Because—­” His excellency understood; something bright gleamed close.

“Are you going to murder me?” he breathed hoarsely.  His excellency’s cousin—­a grand duke—­had been assassinated in Russia.

“I wouldn’t call it that.”  The prince made a movement.  “Sit still.”  The cold object pressed against the nobleman’s temples.  “If ever a scoundrel deserved death, it is you.”

Plain talk!  The prince could scarcely believe he heard aright; yet the thrill of that icy touch on his forehead was real.  His dark face showed growing pallor.  One may be brave—­heroic even, but one does not like to die like a dog, to be struck down by a miserable unclean terrorist—­hardly, from his standpoint, a human being—­unfortunately, however, something that must be dealt with—­not at first, under these circumstances, with force—­but afterward!  Ah, then?  The prince’s eyes seemed to grow smaller, to gleam with Tartar cunning.

“What do you want?” he said.

“Several things.”  Mr. Heatherbloom’s own eyes were keen as darts.  “First, you will give orders that the Nevski is to change her course—­to head for the nearest American port.”

“Impossible!” the prince exclaimed violently.

“On the contrary, it is quite possible.  We have the fuel, as I can testify.”

His excellency’s thoughts ran riot; it was difficult to collect them, with that aching head.  The fellow must be crazy; people of his class usually are, more or less, though they generally displayed a certain method in their madness, while this one—­

“I must remind your excellency that time is of every importance to me,” murmured Mr. Heatherbloom.  “Hence, you will do what I ask, at once, or—­”

“Very well.”  His excellency spoke quickly—­too quickly.  “I’ll give the order.”  And, rising, he started toward the door.

“Stop!”

The prince did.  Venom and apprehension mingled in his look.  Mr. Heatherbloom made a gesture.  “You will give the order; but here—­and as I direct.”  His voice was cold as the gleaming barrel.  “That ’phone,” indicating one on the wall, “connects with the bridge, of course.  Don’t deny.  It will be useless.”