“If that were true,” Prince Shan replied, with the air of one willing to discuss the subject impartially, “might I remind you of Sen Lu, who died in my box at the Albert Hall?  For whom was that dagger thrust meant, Immelan?  Not for the man whom you had bought to betray me, the only one of my suite who has ever been tempted with gold.  That dagger thrust was meant for me, and the assassin was one of your creatures.  So even if your words were true, Immelan, and the poison which you imagine to be in your body were planted there by me, are we less than quits?”

Immelan’s lie was unconvincing.

“I know nothing of Sen Lu’s death,” he declared.  “I employ no assassins.  When there is killing to be done, I can do it myself.  I am here to-night for that purpose.  You have deserted me at the last moment, Prince Shan—­played me and my country false for the sake of the English woman whom you think to carry back with you to China.  And you,” he added, turning with a sudden furious glance at Naida, “you have deceived the man who trusted you, the man who sent you here for one purpose, and one purpose only.  You have done your best to ruin my scheme.  Not only that, but you have given the love which was mine—­mine, I say—­to another—­an Englishman!  I hate you all!  That is why I, a dying man, have crawled here to reap my little harvest of vengeance.—­You, Naida—­you shall be first—­”

Naida was suddenly swung on one side, and the shot which rang out passed through Nigel’s coat sleeve, grazing his wrist,—­the only shot that was fired.  Prince Shan, watching for his moment, as his two attendants threw themselves upon the madman from behind, himself sprang forward, knocked Immelan’s right hand up with a terrible blow, and sent the revolver crashing to the ground.  It was a matter of a few seconds.  Immelan, when he felt himself seized, scarcely struggled.  The courage of his madness seemed to pass, the venom died out of his face, he shook like a man in an ague.  Prince Shan kicked the revolver on one side and looked scornfully down upon him, now a nerveless wreck.

“Immelan,” he said, “it is a pity that you did not wait until to-morrow morning.  You would then have known the truth.  You are no more poisoned than I am.  If you had been in China—­well, who knows?  In England there is so much prejudice against the taking of a worthless life that as a guest I subscribed to it and mixed a little orris-root tooth powder with your vermouth.”

The man’s eyes suddenly opened.  He was feverishly, frantically anxious.

“Tell me that again,” he shrieked.  “You mean it?  Swear that you mean it.”

Prince Shan’s gesture as he turned away was one of supreme contempt.

“A Shan,” he said, “never needs to repeat.”

There was the bustle of arriving police, the story of a revolver which had gone off by accident, a very puzzling contretemps expounded for their benefit.  The situation, and the participants in it, seemed to dissolve with such facility that it was hard for any one to understand what had actually happened.  Prince Shan, with Maggie on his arm, was talking to the leader of the orchestra, who had suddenly reappeared.  The former turned to his companion.