“You have not refused to sign it,” Immelan replied, “but you will refuse.”

“Indeed?” the Prince murmured.

“You are even now trifling with the secrets confided to you,” Immelan went on.  “You know very well that the woman who came to you last night is a spy whose whole time is spent in seeking to worm our secret from you.”

“Your agents keep themselves well informed,” was the calm comment.

“Yours still have the advantage of us,” Immelan answered bitterly.  “Now listen to me.  I have heard it said of you—­I have heard that you claim yourself—­that you have never told a falsehood.  We have been allies.  Answer me this question.  Have you parted with any of our secrets?”

“Not one,” the Prince assured him.  “A certain lady visited this house last night, not, as you seem to think, at my invitation, but on her own initiative.  She was not successful in her quest.”

“She would not pay the price, eh?” Immelan sneered.  “By the gods of your ancestors, Prince Shan, are there not women enough in the world for you without bartering your honour, and the great future of your country, for a blue-eyed jade of an Englishwoman?”

The Prince sat slowly up.  His appearance was ominous.  His face had become set as marble; there was a look in his eyes like the flashing of a light upon black metal.  He contemplated his visitor across the lilies.

“A man so near to death, Immelan,” he enjoined, “might choose his words more carefully.”

Immelan laughed scornfully.

“I am not to be bullied,” he declared.  “Your doors with their patent locks have no fears for me.  When you walk abroad, you are followed by members of your household.  When you come to my rooms, they attend you.  I am not a prince, but I, too, have a care for my skin.  Three of my secret service men never let me out of their sight.  They are within call at this moment.”

His host smiled.

“This is very interesting,” he said, “but you should know me better, Immelan, than to imagine that mine are the clumsy methods of the dagger or the bullet.  The man whom I will to die—­drinks with me.”

He pointed a long forefinger at the empty glass.  Immelan gazed at it, and the sweat stood out upon his forehead.

“My God!” he muttered.  “There was a queer taste!  I thought that it was aniseed!”

“There was nothing in that glass,” the Prince declared, “which the greatest chemist who ever breathed could detect as poison, yet you will die, my friend Immelan, without any doubt.  Shall I tell you how?  Would you know in what manner the pains will come?  No?  But, my friend, you disappoint me!  You showed so much courage an hour ago.  Listen.  Feel for a swelling just behind—­Ah!”

Immelan was already across the room.  The Prince touched a bell, the doors were opened.  Ghastly pale, his head swimming, the tortured man dashed out into the street.  The Prince leaned back amongst his cushions, untied a straw-fastened packet of his long cigarettes, lit one, and closed his eyes.