man's part. A peculiar, indescribable chill swept over him; he had a
distinct, vivid impression that some subtle power was exercising itself
upon him--a power that, for the briefest instant, held him in a grip of
iron. What it was, he could not have told; it passed almost immediately.
Something in the old man's eyes, perhaps--or was it something in the
queer smile that flickered about his lips?

"My dear Mr. Spantz," he hastened to say, as if a defence were
necessary, "please don't get it into your head that I'm thinking ill of
the Prince. I daresay he's a fine little chap and I'm sorry
he's--er--lost his parents."

Spantz laughed, a soft, mirthless gurgle that caused Truxton to wonder
why he had made the effort at all. "I imagine His Serene Highness has
little to fear from any American," he said quietly. "He has been taught
to love and respect the men of his father's land. He loves America quite
as dearly as he loves Graustark." Despite the seeming sincerity of the
remark, Truxton was vaguely conscious that a peculiar harshness had
crept into the other's voice. He glanced sharply at the old man's face.
For the first time he noticed something sinister--yes, evil--in the
leathery countenance; a stealthiness in the hard smile that seemed to
transform it at once into a pronounced leer. Like a flash there darted
into the American's active brain a conviction that there could be no
common relationship between this flinty old man and the delicate,
refined girl he had seen in the shop. Now he recalled the fact that her
dark eyes had a look of sadness and dejection in their depths, and that
her face was peculiarly white and unsmiling.

Spantz was eyeing him narrowly. "You do not appear interested in our
royal family," he ventured coldly.