At Piraeus Von Ritz had secured a copy of the Figaro several days old, and the men had read its report of the Regency of Louis in Puntal.  Then the yacht had called at Malta where the gray fortresses of Valetta frown out to sea, and Von Ritz had once more gone in quest of news.

That had been yesterday.  By common consent the two men refrained from allusions to State matters in the girl’s presence.  Now the former adviser of the King uneasily paced the deck.  Over his usually sphinx-like face brooded the troubled expression of one who confronts an unwelcome necessity.  Suddenly he halted before the girl’s deck-chair, and, schooling his voice with an apparent effort, spoke in his old-time even modulation, but for once he found it difficult to meet the eyes of the person he addressed.

“We have heretofore not spoken of things which we would all give many years of life to forget,” he began.  Then he added with feeling:  “Only the sternest necessity could force me to do so now.”

As he paused for permission to continue, the girl raised her eyes with a sad smile that had grown habitual.

“I have come,” said Von Ritz, “to stand for an implacable Nemesis to you, and yet I should wish to be identified only with happiness in your thoughts.  To me one thing always comes first.  The House of Galavia is my gospel; has been my gospel since Karyl’s father mounted its throne.”  He paused and added gravely:  “Louis Delgado has reaped his reward—­he is dead.”

Benton’s voice broke out in an explosive “Thank God!”

Von Ritz stood a moment silent, then, dropping to one knee, he took the fingers which fell listlessly over the arm of Cara’s steamer-chair and raised them to his lips.

“Your Majesty is Queen of Galavia.”

The American came to his feet, his hands clenched, but with quick self-mastery he stood back, breathing heavily.

Cara sat for a moment only half-comprehending, then with a low moan she leaned forward and covered her face with both hands.

“Forgive me,” said Von Ritz.  “I am your Nemesis.”

Benton moved over silently and knelt beside her chair.  Neither spoke, but at last she raised her face and sat looking out at the water, then slowly one hand came out gropingly toward the American and both of his own closed over it.  Von Ritz stood waiting.

When finally she spoke, her voice was almost childlike, full of pleading.

“I thought,” she said, “that all that was over.  I had thought that whatever is left of life belonged just to me—­for my very own.  I thought I could take it away and try to mend it.”

Von Ritz turned his head and his eyes traveled northward and westward, where, somewhere beyond the horizon, lay his country.

“Galavia needs you,” he said with grave simplicity.  “Unless you come to her aid there must be ruin and dismemberment.  You will save your country.”