“Yes, monsieur.  So if by any chance you were to discover either—­”

“My friend, set your mind at rest,” interposed Cleek.  “If I find either, or both, they will leave the house with me, I promise you.  Mr. Narkom—­” he turned to the superintendent—­“keep an eye on Dollops for me, will you?  There are reasons why I can’t take him—­can’t take anybody—­with me in the working out of this case.  I may be a couple of days or I may be a week—­I can’t say as yet; but I start with Count Irma for Mauravania in the morning.  And, Mr. Narkom!”

“Yes, old chap?”

“Do me a favour, please.  Be at Charing Cross station when the first boat-train leaves to-morrow morning, will you, and bring me a small pot of extract of beef—­a very small pot, the smallest they make—­not bigger than a shilling nor thicker than one if they make them that size.  What’s that?  Hide the pearl in it?  What nonsense!  I don’t want one half big enough for that.  Besides, they’d be sure to find it when they searched me if I tried any such fool’s trick as that.  Dollops isn’t the only creature in the world that gets hungry, my friend, and beef extract is very sustaining, very, I assure you, sir.”

II

“A beautiful city, Count—­an exceedingly beautiful city,” said Cleek, as the carriage which had been sent to meet them at the station rolled into the broad Avenue des Arcs, which is at once the widest and most ornate thoroughfare the capital city of Mauravania boasts.  “Ah, what a heritage!  No wonder King Ulric is so anxious to retain his sovereignty; no wonder this—­er—­Madame Tcharnovetski, I think you said the name is—­”

“Yes, monsieur.  It is oddly spelled, but it is pronounced a little broader than you give it—­quite as though it were written Shar-no-vet-skee, in fact, with the accent on the third syllable.”

“Ah, yes.  Thanks very much.  No wonder she is anxious to become a power here.  Mauravania is a fairyland in very truth; and this beautiful avenue with its arches, its splendid trees, its sculpture, its—­Ah! cocher, pull up at once.  Stop, if you please, stop!”

“Oui, monsieur,” replied the driver, reining in his horses and glancing round. “Dix mille pardons, M’sieur, there is something amiss?”

“Yes; very much amiss—­from the dog’s point of view,” replied Cleek, indicating by a wave of the hand a mongrel puppy which crouched, forlorn and hungry, in the shadow of an imposing building.  “He should be a Socialist among dogs, that little fellow, Count.  The mere accident of birth has made him what he is, and that poodled monstrosity the lady yonder is leading the pet and pride of a thoughtless mistress.  I want that little canine outcast, Count, and with your permission I will appropriate him, and give him his first carriage ride.”  With that, he stepped down from the vehicle, whistled the cur to him, and taking it up in his arms, returned with it to his seat.