“Ten years ago,” flamed Ronador passionately, “you and my father picked a wife for me!  Is not that enough?  Now that she is dead, I shall marry whom I choose.  Has it not occurred to you that after all it is the sanest way out of this horrible muddle?”

“It is one way out,” admitted Tregar, “and by that way lies war with Galituria.”  He fell silent, plucking at his beard.  “I fancy,” he said at last, “that you will not go back to the music-machine.”

“It was—­and is—­my only means of following her.”

“Do so again,” said the Baron dryly, “and the American yellow papers shall blazon your identity to the world.  ’Son of a prince regent—­nephew of a king—­trundles a music-machine about to win a beautiful gypsy!’ And Galituria and the Princess Phaedra will read with interest.”  Then he blazed suddenly with one of his infrequent outbursts of passion, “Is it not enough to have Galituria laughing at a mad king whose claim to the throne by our laws may not be invalidated by his madness?  A king so mad that the affairs of a nation must be administered by a prince regent—­your father?  Must you add to all this the disgrace of breaking faith with Galituria and plunging your country into war?  Your father is an old man.  With but his life and the life of an aging madman between you and the throne, it behooves you to walk with a full recognition of your future responsibilities.  Your father knows you are here in America?”

“No.  There was an Arctic expedition.  He thinks I have gone hunting with that.  At first I thought I could come to America and return with no one the wiser.”

“Having murdered Miss Westfall!” completed the Baron quietly.

Ronador’s face was ashen.

“Excellency,” he choked suddenly, “my little son—­”

“Yes,” said Tregar with sudden kindness, “I know.  Your great love and ambition for the boy drove you to madness.”  He paused.  “You are fully decided to break faith with Phaedra, knowing what may come of it?”

“Yes.  Even if my great love for Miss Westfall did not drive me on—­”

“To indiscretion!” supplied the Baron dryly.

“As you will.  Even then, to me it is now the one way out.  With Granberry dead, with the treacherous paper in my possession—­”

“It has been burned.”

Ronador did not hear.

“With Miss Westfall my wife,” he finished, “even if the dead thing stirs again, it can make no difference.”

“Then,” said the Baron formally, “I am through with it all, quite through.  The task was never of my choosing, as you know.  When the dead hand reached forth from the grave to taunt you, Ronador, I was willing at first to stoop to unutterable things to save you—­and Houdania—­from dishonor, but more and more there has been distaste in my heart for the blackness of the thing.  Days back I warned you by letter that I would not see Miss Westfall coldly sacrificed for a muddle of which she knew absolutely nothing.  There are things a man may not do even for his country—­one is murdering women.  Now, though I pledged myself through loyalty to my country, my king, my regent and yourself to spying and murder and petty thievery, with a consequent chain of discomfort and misunderstandings for myself, I am through and mightily glad of it!”