“The Baron von Steinheid?” repeated Cleek, pulling himself up as though he had trodden upon something.  “Do you mean to say that the man whose life he saved—­Scarmelli—­tell me something:  Does it happen by any chance that the ‘Chevalier di Roma’s’ real name is Peter Janssen Pullaine?”

“Yes,” said Scarmelli, in reply.  “That is his name.  Why?”

“Nothing, but that it solves the riddle, and—­the lion has smiled for the last time!  No, don’t ask me any questions; there isn’t time to explain.  Get me as quickly as you can to the place where we left Mr. Narkom’s motor.  Will this way lead me out?  Thanks!  Get back to the others, and look for me again in two hours’ time; and—­Scarmelli!”

“Yes, sir?”

“One last word—­don’t let that boy get out of your sight for one instant, and don’t, no matter at what cost, let the chevalier do his turn to-night before I get back.  Good-bye for a time.  I’m off.”

Then he moved like a fleetly-passing shadow round the angle of the building, and two minutes later he was with Narkom in the red limousine.

“To the German embassy as fast as we can fly,” he said as he scrambled in.  “I’ve something to tell you about that lion’s smile, Mr. Narkom, and I’ll tell it while we’re on the wing.”

CHAPTER XVIII

It was nine o’clock and after.  The great show at Olympia was at its height; the packed house was roaring with delight over the daring equestrianship of “Mlle. Marie de Zanoni,” and the sound of the cheers rolled in to the huge dressing-tent, where the artists awaited their several turns, and the chevalier, in spangled trunks and tights, all ready for his call, sat hugging his child and shivering like a man with the ague.

“Come, come, buck up, man, and don’t funk it like this,” said Senor Sperati, who had graciously consented to assist him with his dressing because of the injury to his hand.  “The idea of you losing your nerve, you of all men, and because of a little affair like that.  You know very well that Nero is as safe as a kitten to-night, that he never has two smiling turns in the same week, much less the same day.  Your act’s the next on the programme.  Buck up and go at it like a man.”

“I can’t, senor, I can’t!” almost wailed the chevalier.  “My nerve is gone.  Never, if I live to be a thousand, shall I forget that awful moment, that appalling ‘smile.’  I tell you, there is wizardry in the thing; the beast is bewitched.  My work in the arena is done—­done for ever, senor.  I shall never have courage to look into the beast’s jaws again.”

“Rot!  You’re not going to ruin the show, are you, and after all the money I’ve put into it?  If you have no care for yourself, it’s your duty to think about me.  You can at least try.  I tell you you must try!  Here, take a sip of brandy, and see if that won’t put a bit of courage into you.  Hello!” as a burst of applause and the thud of a horse’s hoofs down the passage to the stables came rolling in, “there’s your wife’s turn over at last; and there—­listen! the ringmaster is announcing yours.  Get up, man; get up and go out.”