from New York, that city where love affairs adjust themselves
without the aid of a novelist.

Quentin, of course, was loath to believe that Prince Ugo would
resort to underhand means to checkmate a rival whose real purpose
had not yet been announced. In six weeks the finest wedding in years
was to occur in Brussels. St. Gudule, that historic cathedral, was
to be the scene of a ceremony on which all European newspapers had
the eye of comment. American papers had printed columns concerning
the engagement of the beautiful Miss Garrison. Everywhere had been
published the romantic story of this real love match. What, then,
should the prince fear?

The train rumbled into the station at Brussels near midnight, and
Turk sallied forth for a cab. This he obtained without the usual
amount of haggling on his part, due to the disappointing fact that
the Belgian driver could understand nothing more than the word
Bellevue, while Turk could interpret nothing more than the word
franc. As Quentin was crossing to the cab he encountered Duke
Laselli. Both started, and, after a moment's pause, greeted each
other.

"I thought I saw you at Mons," said Phil, after the first
expressions of surprise.

"Yes; I boarded the train there. Some business called me to Mons
last week. And you, I presume, like most tourists, are visiting a
dozen cities in half as many days," said the duke, in his execrable
English. They paused at the side of the Italian's conveyance, and
Quentin mentally resolved that the dim light, as it played upon the