"You are likely to know more?"

Karl Steinmetz shrugged his heavy shoulders, and shook his head
doubtfully.

"I am not a lady's man," he added gruffly; "the good God has not shaped
me that way. I am too d--d fat. Has Mrs. Sydney Bamborough fallen in
love with me? Has some imprudent person shown her my photograph? I hope
not. Heaven forbid!"

He puffed steadily at his pipe, and glanced quickly at De Chauxville
through the smoke.

"No," answered the Frenchman quite gravely. Frenchmen, by the way, do
not admit that one may be too middle-aged, or too stout, for love. "But
she is au mieux with the prince."

"Which prince?"

"Pavlo."

The Frenchman snapped out the word, watching the other's benevolent
countenance. Steinmetz continued to smoke placidly and contentedly.

"My master," he said at length. "I suppose that some day he will marry."

De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders. He touched the button of the
electric bell, and when the servant appeared, ordered coffee. He
selected a cigarette from a silver case with considerable care, and