“These are dazzling propositions,” Prince Shan admitted, “and yet—­what about the other side of the Pacific?”

“America would be powerless,” Immelan insisted.

“So you said before, in 1917,” was the dry reminder.  “I did not come here, however, to talk world politics with you.  Those things for the moment are finished.  I came in answer to your summons.”

Immelan raised himself a little in the bed.

“You meant what you said?” he demanded, with hoarse anxiety.  “There was no poison?  Swear that?”

Prince Shan moved towards the door.  His backward glance was coldly contemptuous.

“What I said, I meant,” he replied.  “Extract such comfort from it as you may.”

He left the room, closing the door softly behind him.  Immelan stared after him, hollow-eyed and anxious.  Already the cold fears were seizing upon him once more.

Prince Shan rejoined Nigel, and the two men drove off to Downing Street.  The former was silent for the first few minutes.  Then he turned slightly towards his companion.

“The man Immelan is a coward,” he declared.  “It is he whom I have just visited.”

Nigel shrugged his shoulders.

“So many men are brave enough in a fight,” he remarked, “who lose their nerve on a sick bed.”

“Bravery in battle,” Prince Shan pronounced, “is the lowest form of courage.  The blood is stirred by the excitement of slaughter as by alcohol.  With Immelan I shall have no more dealings.”

“Speaking politically as well as personally?” Nigel enquired.

The other smiled.

“I think I might go so far as to agree,” he acquiesced, “but in a sense, there are conditions.  You shall hear what they are.  I will speak before you to the Prime Minister.  See, up above is the sign of my departure.”

Out of a little bank of white, fleecy clouds which hung down, here and there, from the blue sky, came the Black Dragon, her engines purring softly, her movements slow and graceful.  Both men watched her for a moment in silence.

“At six o’clock to-morrow morning I start,” Prince Shan announced.  “My pilot tells me that the weather conditions are wonderful, all the way from here to Pekin.  We shall be there on Wednesday.”

“You travel alone?” Nigel enquired.

“I have passengers,” was the quiet reply.  “I am taking the English chaplain to your Church in Pekin.”

The eyes of the two men met.

“It is an ingenious idea,” Nigel admitted dryly.

“I wish to be prepared,” his companion answered.  “It may be that he is my only companion.  In that case, I go back to a life lonelier than I have ever dreamed of.  It is on the knees of the gods.  So far there has come no word, but although I am not by nature an optimist, my superstitions are on my side.  All the way over on my last voyage, when I lay in my berth, awake and we sailed over and through the clouds, my star, my own particular star, seemed leaning always down towards me, and for that reason I have faith.”