“Learn these faces,” he said, “until you would know each one of them at once wheresoever you met it.  Fix them upon your mind, so that it will be impossible for you to forget them.  You must be able to sketch any one of them and recall the city or town or neighborhood connected with it.”

Even this was still called “the game,” but Marco began to know in his secret heart that it was so much more, that his hand sometimes trembled with excitement as he made his sketches over and over again.  To make each one many times was the best way to imbed it in his memory.  The Rat knew, too, though he had no reason for knowing, but mere instinct.  He used to lie awake in the night and think it over and remember what Loristan had said of the time coming when Marco might need a comrade in his work.  What was his work to be?  It was to be something like “the game.”  And they were being prepared for it.  And though Marco often lay awake on his bed when The Rat lay awake on his sofa, neither boy spoke to the other of the thing his mind dwelt on.  And Marco worked as he had never worked before.  The game was very exciting when he could prove his prowess.  The four gathered together at night in the back sitting-room.  Lazarus was obliged to be with them because a second judge was needed.  Loristan would mention the name of a place, perhaps a street in Paris or a hotel in Vienna, and Marco would at once make a rapid sketch of the face under whose photograph the name of the locality had been written.  It was not long before he could begin his sketch without more than a moment’s hesitation.  And yet even when this had become the case, they still played the game night after night.  There was a great hotel near the Place de la Concorde in Paris, of which Marco felt he should never hear the name during all his life without there starting up before his mental vision a tall woman with fierce black eyes and a delicate high-bridged nose across which the strong eyebrows almost met.  In Vienna there was a palace which would always bring back at once a pale cold-faced man with a heavy blonde lock which fell over his forehead.  A certain street in Munich meant a stout genial old aristocrat with a sly smile; a village in Bavaria, a peasant with a vacant and simple countenance.  A curled and smoothed man who looked like a hair-dresser brought up a place in an Austrian mountain town.  He knew them all as he knew his own face and No. 7 Philibert Place.

But still night after night the game was played.

Then came a night when, out of a deep sleep, he was awakened by Lazarus touching him.  He had so long been secretly ready to answer any call that he sat up straight in bed at the first touch.

“Dress quickly and come down stairs,” Lazarus said.  “The Prince is here and wishes to speak with you.”

Marco made no answer but got out of bed and began to slip on his clothes.

Lazarus touched The Rat.

The Rat was as ready as Marco and sat upright as he had done.