The ambassador’s eyes grew steely, then blank again.

“Mademoiselle, what am I to understand from that?” he demanded.

“You are to understand that I am absolute master of the situation in Washington at this moment,” she replied positively.  The smile on her lips and the tone of her voice were strangely at variance.  “From the beginning I let you understand that ultimately you would receive your instructions from Paris; now I know they will reach you by cable to-morrow.  Within a week the compact will be signed.  Whether you approve of it or not it will be signed for your country by a special envoy whose authority is greater than yours—­his Highness, the Prince Benedetto d’Abruzzi.”

“Has he reached Washington?”

“He is in Washington.  He has been here for some time, incognito.”  She was silent a moment.  “You have been a source of danger to our plans,” she added.  “If it had not been for an accident you would still have been comfortably kept out in Alexandria where Mr. Grimm and I found you.  Please remember, Monsieur, that we will accomplish what we set out to do.  Nothing can stop us—­nothing.”

At just about the same moment the name of Prince d’Abruzzi had been used in the dining-room, but in a different connection.  Mr. Cadwallader was reciting some incident of an automobile trip in Italy when he had been connected with the British embassy there.

“The prince was driving,” he said, “and one of the best I ever saw.  Corking chap, the prince; democratic, you know, and all that sort of thing.  He was one scion of royalty who didn’t mind soiling his hands by diving in under a car and fixing it himself.  At that time he was inclined to be wild—­that was eight or nine years ago—­but they say now he has settled down to work, and is one of the real diplomatic powers of Italy.  I haven’t seen him for a half dozen years.”

“How old a man is he?” asked Mr. Grimm carelessly.

“Thirty-five, thirty-eight, perhaps; I don’t know,” replied Mr. Cadwallader.  “It’s odd, you know, the number of princes and blue-bloods and all that sort of thing one can find knocking about in Italy and Germany and Spain.  One never hears of half of them.  I never had heard of the Prince d’Abruzzi until I went to Italy, and I’ve heard jolly well little of him since, except indirectly.”

Mr. Cadwallader lapsed into silence as he sat staring at a large group photograph which was framed on a wall of the dining-room.

“Isn’t that the royal family of Italy?” he asked.  He rose and went over to it.  “By Jove, it is, and here is the prince in the group.  The picture was taken, I should say, about the time I knew him.”

Mr. Grimm strolled over idly and stood for a long time staring at the photograph.

“He can drive a motor, you know,” said Mr. Cadwallader admiringly.  “And Italy is the place to drive them.  They forgot to make any speed laws over there, and if a chap gets in your way and you knock him silly they arrest him for obstructing traffic, you know.  Over here if a chap really starts to go any place in a hurry some bally idiot holds him up.”