of astonishment and dismay.

"Who is it?" the King asked, peevishly. "What are you staring
at? How did he get in?"

Kalonay turned on Barrat, sitting at his right. "Did you see
him?" he asked. Barrat nodded gloomily.

"The devil!" exclaimed the Prince, as though Barrat had
confirmed his guess. "I beg your pardon," he said, nodding
his head toward the women. He pushed back his chair and stood
irresolutely with his napkin in his hand. "Tell him we are
not in, Niccolas," he commanded.

"He saw us as he passed the window," the Baron objected.

"Say we are at breakfast then. I will see him myself in a
moment. What shall I tell him?" he asked, turning to Barrat.
"Do you think he knows? He must know, they have told him in
Paris."

"You are keeping us waiting," said the King. "What is it?
Who is this man?"

"An American named Gordon. He is a correspondent," Kalonay
answered, without turning his head. His eyes were still fixed
on the terrace as though he had seen a ghost.

The King slapped his hand on the arm of the chair. "You
promised me," he said, "that we should be free from that sort