“I don’t know where Samavia is,” she raged, as she struggled to set her dusty, black cap straight.  “I’ll warrant it’s one of these little foreign countries you can scarcely see on the map—­and not a decent English town in it!  He can go as soon as he likes, so long as he pays his rent before he does it.  Samavia, indeed!  You talk as if he was Buckingham Palace!”

XXXI

“THE SON OF STEFAN LORISTAN”

When a party composed of two boys attended by a big soldierly man-servant and accompanied by two distinguished-looking, elderly men, of a marked foreign type, appeared on the platform of Charing Cross Station they attracted a good deal of attention.  In fact, the good looks and strong, well-carried body of the handsome lad with the thick black hair would have caused eyes to turn towards him even if he had not seemed to be regarded as so special a charge by those who were with him.  But in a country where people are accustomed to seeing a certain manner and certain forms observed in the case of persons—­however young—­who are set apart by the fortune of rank and distinction, and where the populace also rather enjoys the sight of such demeanor, it was inevitable that more than one quick-sighted looker-on should comment on the fact that this was not an ordinary group of individuals.

“See that fine, big lad over there!” said a workman, whose head, with a pipe in its mouth, stuck out of a third-class smoking carriage window.  “He’s some sort of a young swell, I’ll lay a shillin’!  Take a look at him,” to his mate inside.

The mate took a look.  The pair were of the decent, polytechnic-educated type, and were shrewd at observation.

“Yes, he’s some sort of young swell,” he summed him up.  “But he’s not English by a long chalk.  He must be a young Turk, or Russian, sent over to be educated.  His suite looks like it.  All but the ferret-faced chap on crutches.  Wonder what he is!”

A good-natured looking guard was passing, and the first man hailed him.

“Have we got any swells traveling with us this morning?” he asked, jerking his head towards the group.  “That looks like it.  Any one leaving Windsor or Sandringham to cross from Dover to-day?”

The man looked at the group curiously for a moment and then shook his head.

“They do look like something or other,” he answered, “but no one knows anything about them.  Everybody’s safe in Buckingham Palace and Marlborough House this week.  No one either going or coming.”

No observer, it is true, could have mistaken Lazarus for an ordinary attendant escorting an ordinary charge.  If silence had not still been strictly the order, he could not have restrained himself.  As it was, he bore himself like a grenadier, and stood by Marco as if across his dead body alone could any one approach the lad.