“And a huge leopardess with two cubs walked out on to the ledge and came to him and threw herself down with a heavy lunge near his feet.”

“Your father saw that!” cried out The Rat.  “You mean the old fellow knew something that made wild beasts afraid to touch him or any one near him?”

“Not afraid.  They knew he was their brother, and that he was one with the Law.  He had lived so long with the Great Thought that all darkness and fear had left him forever.  He had mended the Chain.”

The Rat had reached deep waters.  He leaned forward—­his hands burrowing in his hair, his face scowling and twisted, his eyes boring into space.  He had climbed to the ledge at the mountain-top; he had seen the luminous immensity of the stars, and he had looked down into the shadows filling the world thousands of feet below.  Was there some remote deep in him from whose darkness a slow light was rising?  All that Loristan had said he knew must be true.  But the rest of it—?

Marco got up and came over to him.  He looked like his father again.

“If the descendant of the Lost Prince is brought back to rule Samavia, he will teach his people the Law of the One.  It was for that the holy man taught my father until the dawn came.”

“Who will—­who will teach the Lost Prince—­the new King—­when he is found?” The Rat cried.  “Who will teach him?”

“The hermit said my father would.  He said he would also teach his son—­and that son would teach his son—­and he would teach his.  And through such as they were, the whole world would come to know the Order and the Law.”

Never had The Rat looked so strange and fierce a thing.  A whole world at peace!  No tactics—­no battles—­no slaughtered heroes—­no clash of arms, and fame!  It made him feel sick.  And yet—­something set his chest heaving.

“And your father would teach him that—­when he was found!  So that he could teach his sons.  Your father believes in it?”

“Yes,” Marco answered.  He said nothing but “Yes.”  The Rat threw himself forward on the table, face downward.

“Then,” he said, “he must make me believe it.  He must teach me—­if he can.”

They heard a clumping step upon the staircase, and, when it reached the landing, it stopped at their door.  Then there was a solid knock.

When Marco opened the door, the young soldier who had escorted him from the Hof-Theater was standing outside.  He looked as uninterested and stolid as before, as he handed in a small flat package.

“You must have dropped it near your seat at the Opera,” he said.  “I was to give it into your own hands.  It is your purse.”

After he had clumped down the staircase again, Marco and The Rat drew a quick breath at one and the same time.

“I had no seat and I had no purse,” Marco said.  “Let us open it.”

There was a flat limp leather note-holder inside.  In it was a paper, at the head of which were photographs of the Lovely Person and her companion.  Beneath were a few lines which stated that they were the well known spies, Eugenia Karovna and Paul Varel, and that the bearer must be protected against them.  It was signed by the Chief of the Police.  On a separate sheet was written the command:  “Carry this with you as protection.”