“The big brute got what he deserved, Dickey, but that isn’t going to relieve us if he should die.  Prince Ugo would use it as an excuse to drive you out of Europe and, of course, I would not desert you.  It was my affair and you were unlucky enough to get into it.  There is one thing that puzzles me.  I directly insulted Ravorelli last night.  Why does he not challenge me?  He must be positive that I recognize him as Pavesi and can ruin him with a word.  I am told he is a remarkable shot and swordsman, and I don’t believe he is a coward.”

“Why should he risk his head or his heart if he can induce other men to fight for him?”

“But it seems that he has traitors in his camp.  I wonder who that waiter was?”

After a long silence Dickey dolefully asked:  “Say, do you believe the Saxondales turned me down on that shooting box party?”

“I can’t believe it.  All is well between you and Lady Jane, of course?”

“As well as it can ever be,” said the other, looking straight ahead, his jaws set.

“Oho!  Is it all off?”

“Is what all off?” belligerently.

“O, if you don’t know, I won’t insist on an answer.  I merely suspected a thickness.”

“That we were getting thick, you mean?  You were never more mistaken in your life.  The chances are I’ll never see her again.  That’s not very thick, is it?”

“I saw a letter just now for you, in my box at the hotel.  Looked like a young woman’s chirography, and it was from London—­”

“Why the devil didn’t you tell me it was there?” exploded Dickey.

“Does Lady Jane make an R that looks like a streak of lightning with all sorts of angles?”

“She makes a very fashionable—­what do you mean by inspecting my mail?  Are you establishing a censorship?” Dickey was guilty of an unheard of act—­for him.  He was blushing.

“My boy, I did not know it was your property until after I had carefully deciphered every letter in the name.  I agree with you; she writes a very fashionable alphabet.  The envelope looked thick, to say the least.  It must contain a huge postscript.”

“Or a collection of all the notes I have written to her.  I’ll go back, if you don’t mind, however.  I’m curious to know who it’s from.”

Dickey went back to read his voluminous letter, and Quentin seated himself on a bench in the park.  A voice from behind brought him sharply from a long reverie.

“Mr. Quentin, last night, possibly in the heat of excitement, you inferred that I was in some way accountable for the controversy which led to the meeting between Prince Kapolski and your friend.  I trust that I misunderstood you.”

Quentin was on his feet and facing Prince Ravorelli before the remark was fairly begun, and he was thinking with greater rapidity than he had ever thought before.  He was surprised to find Ugo, suave and polite as ever, deliberately, coolly rushing affairs to a climax.  His sudden decision to abandon the friendly spirit exhibited but half an hour before was as inexplicable as it was critical.  What fresh inspiration had caused him to alter his position?