MORTON reached the cooler air and took several turns around the deck. The soft breeze playing on his face, the sight of the twinkling lights and the bustle from the shore, awoke him to himself. He began to realize the situation in which he had placed himself, and to regret the enterprise to which he had, in a sense, committed himself. It was so different from the plans he had already formed, so entirely at variance with his thoughts and his aims. Was it really to be so? Or was it but a dream from which he had just awakened? He felt like a boy caught in a forbidden act. By Jove, the most sensible thing would be to go back to the cabin and tell the Count that the whole scheme was impossible! Surely the man was not quite right in his head! What had he to do with so absurd an adventure? Don would be certain to think he had been talking with a lunatic if he came to him with the story. Oh, yes, Don was the very man to consult about this matter. He would see him at once.

Then, into the kaleidoscopic whirl of his thoughts rose again the portrait of the beautiful girl he had seen. That was real, without a doubt. How lovely she was! He recalled the fine outline of the oval face, the thoughtful brow, the slightly parted lips with their faint curve of a smile. He wondered what color her hair and eyes were. And then he saw the slender throat, the simple, graceful pose of the child-woman. She surely must have a mind as beautiful as her face. He could almost see the little mouth pout, and the beautiful blue eyes (yes, they were blue) fill with tears.

He swore silently under his breath and lit his pipe. He could think better smoking. A few puffs and he had made up his mind. He was in for it, right or wrong—he couldn’t and wouldn’t back out. He was wasting time, even now. He must be up and doing. Don must be told at once. He wouldn’t tell him more than a bare outline—simply announce the change in his program and order him to prepare for a journey—the Count would have some plan worked out.

As to his people—his father? Oh, well, he had already intimated that he might go to Turkestan. The governor was all right and two or three weeks more wouldn’t make an absence of two years seem much longer. He would get ready.

On the main deck in a cozy spot he found Don, surrounded by youngsters of all ages and both sexes, telling the little ones some fairy tale. It was remarkable how fond Donald was of children and how quickly the children took to him.

“I am sorry, Don, to disturb this little party. Would you mind coming to my cabin—I have an important matter to talk over with you.”

If Don felt surprise he succeeded in hiding it. Smilingly depositing a mite of a girl from his knee on to the deck, he disentangled himself from the swarm about him, and said quickly: “All right, Mr. Morton, I’ll be down in a minute.”

Promising the children to resume his tale next morning, and accompanied by shrill calls of: “Don’t forget, Mr. McCormick,” and “Don’t tell anything when I aren’t here,” he followed Morton.

Arrived in his cabin, Morton silently motioned his man to a seat and sat down himself. He at once informed Don that important matters about which for the present he could say nothing, obliged him to change the original plan of travel. The journey to Italy would have to be interrupted by a couple of weeks’ stay in Eastern Europe. An important undertaking had to be accomplished that needed cool judgment and careful preparation. Don must leave by the midnight train and embark the next evening on the Lloyd boat for Brindisi. Further orders would be ready for him when he arrived there. Donald simply nodded and made ready to rise when Morton suddenly changed his mind.

“Don, we have serious work laid out for us—I am not ready to tell you what—I don’t quite know myself what it is—but you will have to be over there at once and start at the business. I’ll have our agent from Rome meet you in Brindisi and he will act on your instructions. I’ll cable him and have letters of introduction ready. Now let’s put down what we need.”

Don was to secure a large amount of money in gold and bills current in Balkan countries; especially gold—for Roumelia.

He was to obtain all the information available about Roumelia, collect newspaper articles on Roumelian affairs beginning with October fifteenth, tabulate them so that they could go over them quickly, and get information about the best train connections with Bucharest. Morton would need the help of an American Consul. Don must induce the Consul at Rome or Naples to come to Brindisi to meet him, Morton. Morton would explain things later. Passports good for all the Balkan states, and especially Roumelia, would be needed. Also introductory letters to American Consuls and to such men of standing as the consul or the agents of the firm could influence.

Don’s face had, during this recital, been assuming a more and more puzzled expression. “Is it all on the level, Mr. John?” he asked. “It sounds kind o’ crazy.”

John grunted: “It’s all right enough; just wait until you know why.”

Don was further instructed to obtain a full equipment for three men—four rifles, revolvers and ammunition—all of the best make. A camp outfit for five or six people, rugs, furs, tools, canned meats and provender for horses for ten days.

Don looked so astonished that Morton couldn’t suppress a grin. He decided to take his man further into his confidence, and impressed him with the need of discretion.

Once Don had the outline of the “job” clearly in his mind, he looked relieved. Morton knew now that all his instructions would be obeyed to the letter, and that he was certain of a faithful adherent. Don’s interest took on an enthusiasm which showed that he was eager for the adventure. The primitive man in him had begun to assert itself. He would do and dare anything.

When everything had been agreed upon and settled to their satisfaction, Morton dismissed his man and returned to the Count in his cabin. He found the old man feeling much better—the eyes were brighter and the tone of his voice stronger. He was glad that Morton had come because he was anxious to lay out the plans of action.

He informed Morton that he had cabled to his friend in Constantinople asking further information and expected a reply the next morning. When he was told that Donald was going to Brindisi ahead of them, he was pleased—that would gain time, he thought.

Mr. Morton was to go to Kronstadt in Transylvania, only a short distance from the Roumelian border and equip there. A good priest of that town, a faithful and well-informed man, would be of great help to him. His good will was assured—he was under obligation to the Count and could be relied on. With native guides and helpers obtained there—men that knew the country and language—Mr. Morton could assume the dress of an ordinary citizen and give out some purpose of travel not likely to awaken suspicion. The guides would drive into Padina as farmers bringing their produce to the town market.

At Padina—there was one man there, a Jewish merchant who was very loyal to the Count and his family, a very shrewd and resourceful man who, in all likelihood, would be standing well with the new powers. The man was absolutely true and loyal and would be of great assistance.

These matters clearly understood the Count suggested that perhaps an outline of the history of Roumelia during the past quarter century would help Mr. Morton to understand the situation. Morton expressed himself as eager to be enlightened.

No one could be with Count Rondell without succumbing to the charm of his magnetic personality. He told his tale with the skill of an accomplished raconteur and with the knowledge of personal experience. The man who was speaking had played a great part in the drama he unfolded. It was a rare pleasure that Morton enjoyed.

“I know, my dear Mr. Morton,” said the Count when he had finished, “that as a republican you may not be in sympathy with monarchy, but if you will permit me to explain it may help to straighten out any false ideas you may have—at least, so far as my own country is concerned.”

“By all means, Count,” replied Morton heartily.

“I shall not attempt to discuss which is or which is not the most proper and most enlightened form of government—that would be futile now—we certainly agree that some form of government is absolutely needed to secure the peaceful development of any commonwealth. You Americans, with a virile and highly gifted population descended from peoples who have lived under liberal laws for many generations, inhabiting a virtually virgin land of great resources, without a history of oppression to live down—you are capable of existing and prospering under a democracy. Believe me, my dear sir, Roumelia never could and never will survive under a similar form of government. The novelty may appeal to them, the delusion of a new kind of freedom may delude them, but the people are not educated for it, they are not ready for it. They need the pomp of a court, the strong personality of an acknowledged ruler to temper demagogue ambitions and to curb the desire of the common mind to become enriched at the expense of the country. There must be some one who is above bribery, who will not be swayed by selfish motives but who has the public welfare at heart—such a man can only be the king. His position is God’s gift; and he is responsible to his Maker alone! A republican form of government in the Balkans! My dear sir, it would be a farce, were it not a tragedy!”

Morton made no reply, and Count Rondell crossed his legs and leaned further back in his chair.

“My dear Mr. Morton,” he said, with a plaintive smile, “may I speak my mind to you? I cannot explain it, but I was drawn to you from the first. You are a man whose kind I have always loved and admired—perhaps it is because we do not raise the like in my own country. I wish I had a son like you!”

“Count, I am proud of your esteem and regard.”

“My dear boy!” and impulsively the Count pressed Morton’s hand. “I am very, very happy and feel certain you will succeed. Save my beloved daughter and the noble Princess—and, perhaps, save also Roumelia from herself and her abominations.”

“At present, Count Rondell, it will be well if I think less of politics or kings and more of the two ladies who will need all our help. If one of them regains her right—well and good.” The old man puffed at his cigar thoughtfully. “You are right,” he said at last.

The two men sat in converse until a late hour. Morton smoking incessantly, was satisfied to sit and listen to this remarkable old man, who in spite of his delicate frame possessed a will of iron, a mind as keen and as brilliant as a diamond and a heart as noble and tender as a woman’s. The Count had told him of his search for the weakling of a prince and its tragic end. Morton marvelled at the devotion and nerve of this faithful servant of the Crown. “What a man!” he said to himself. “What a splendid example for any highly resolved youth to emulate!” Surely he would do well to be moved by a like spirit! “Nihil sine Deo,” was Roumelia’s motto, the Count had told him. Henceforth his motto would be “Omnia cum Deo.” His heart expanded in sympathy for the long-suffering statesman—he would be worthy of the trust imposed in him and would succeed.

Again the likeness of the beautiful girl came before him. An overwhelming desire to see the photograph once more seized him. With the instinctive cunning of a lover, he remarked: “Bye-the-bye, Count, you will, of course, furnish me with proper credentials.”

“Certainly. The letters I shall have ready for you are carefully listed on the memorandum I have prepared for you. I shall also ask you to take this ring. It will vouch for you with all my friends and followers. When showing it say the words, ‘Arnim’s pledge.’ And I must also give you the photographs of the young ladies.”

Count Rondell, to Morton’s delight, reached for the portfolio and opened its quaint and curious lock.

“This I think is the best likeness of the three I have with me,” and he handed over the very photograph Morton had first seen. “I shall have a copy of it made early to-morrow and will include it with the other papers.” Morton had seized the portrait and was devouring it with his eyes. “She is a beautiful girl, Mr. Morton!”

John turned his face away so that the Count should not notice his expression, and remarked politely but with an air of nonchalance: “Yes, Count, she is very bright and attractive. It is a little difficult for a stranger to see a likeness—does she favor you in any way?” In his heart he felt it was the most adorable, the most beautiful face he had ever seen.

“She may, a little; but to me she has always seemed like her sainted mother. Although a child in appearance, she is past nineteen and quite tall.”

Morton thought nineteen was young enough. He longed to keep the photograph. He felt he could look at it for ever. Reluctantly he handed it back.

The hour was late and Morton regretted he had kept the sick man from his bed. Rising quickly he excused himself and, promising to look in early the next morning, he retired to his own cabin. There he learned that Donald had completed his packing, and was ready for the journey.

He at once sat down and wrote a letter to his father’s agents at Brindisi introducing Don and giving him full power to act in his stead, and requesting them to aid his representative in every way they could. Don was to be given such funds as he needed and instructions to this effect would come from headquarters by cable.

To his father he cabled: “Will leave England second week November. Will advise steamer. Take care yourself, love all. Please approve by cable heavy drafts on your agents Rome, Brindisi. Am well.”

To his mother: “Cable Hindoostan Port Said and later Brindisi father’s health. Can I stay in Europe two weeks longer? Love.”

Having despatched the cables he settled down to write his letters—one each to his father and mother. The cable he had received disturbed him. He was anxious about his father’s health.

The letters, indicative of John’s character and his relations to his parents are, perhaps, worthy of reproduction.

Suez, October ——, 189—.

Dear Father:

At last I am out of the desert and once more within civilization on my way home. I cabled you to-night:

“Will leave England second week November. Will advise steamer. Take care yourself, love all. Please approve by cable heavy drafts on your agents, Rome, Brindisi. Am well.”

I shall have to go to Paris for some days, see some friends in Germany and report in London to the Secretary of the Colonies about my work in Egypt; expect to take the Cunarder that leaves November 14th from Liverpool.

Have had your letters of August 10th and September 16th upon arriving here, and some letters from mother and sis. Also have your cable of the —— in which you ask me to come home as you are not feeling well.

I hope, dear father, this does not mean that you are ill. You work too hard and play too little. When I get back I’ll want you to make use of me, put me into harness and ease up on yourself. I have had any amount of time in the desert to think of my work and my duty, and I assure you, father, I will settle down and try to carry on your work and your plans. I have always admitted that you knew best and were ever right. I repeat that now and want to put myself at your service.I am hearty and strong. You will find me fit and willing, and the life abroad and the knowledge I have gained have done me good, I think. How I do look forward, dear Dad, to seeing you again; to sit by you and chat and plan! How proud I am that my work here has been so successful! Dad, you will be pleased. Your ideas are absolutely borne out, and with the data we have of Jackson’s Hole country I am positive the work can be done and finished in two and a half or three years. We can rely on at least 300 million gallons of storage reserve and a useful supply of not less than 18 million per day. Isn’t that glorious?

Remember, father, you always hinted that my duty, as the last of the Mortons, was to settle down, marry and see to it that I shan’t remain the last of your doughty clan. Well, I am as “dour” as any Morton ever was—and willing. As I am writing in similar strain to mother I expect between you two you will try and pick the mother of my future offspring. I guess you will want her to be fair and mother dark—I will thus, at least, have a chance of choosing for myself!

But, joking aside, Dad, I am ready to quit roving for good, ready to give up adventure, ready to settle down in the dear old home and go into business. And if I can’t duplicate you, father, I’ll make a good try anyway!

Have you gotten the Mummy which I shipped in May; and did the Sarcophagus reach you that I sent by “underground” in July? The latter is certainly a very fine specimen and will just fit into your gallery.

I feel fine. I am, if anything, heavier than two years ago, and didn’t have a sick minute while in Africa. I am browned as dark as the headwaiter at the Lake House and with a little practice could beat you on the links.

Unless I have cable from you will stick to the above plan and be in New York on November 22d.

Donald is well and glad to turn his nose west. He asks to be remembered to you. You will be satisfied with him when you look at me.

Dearest love to you all, my loved ones.

Give my regards to all our friends whom I shall be glad to see again this winter.

I embrace you, my dear Dad.

Your loving

John.

P.S.—“Am going to draw rather heavily on your agents in Rome or Brindisi, as I won’t have time to see bankers before getting to London. Will settle by transfer from my account when I return.”

The other letter to his mother, he wrote more carefully.

Suez, October——, 189—.

My Dearest Mother:

By this same mail I am writing to father and you will get all information about me from that letter. You are not supposed to show this, your own letter, to Dad; it is partly for you only, as you will see in the next few sentences.

I have cabled to you inquiring if father’s health is in any way alarming and expect your reply promptly. If the answer is favorable I shall take a week or so in Europe for an enterprise which looks very important to me and of which you, I am certain, would approve.

I haven’t even time to write a long letter, but as I shall be but a week or two later than these lines, my tale can well wait.

This enterprise, dear mater, I cannot specify more exactly than to say that I know you would applaud the principle involved and would yourself urge me to undertake it.

I can hardly wait until I am home with you, dearest mother, and with father and Ruth. I shall have an awful lot to tell, of strange countries, experiences and a study of life that has been granted to few men. You may lionize me, mother, and ask all the swell people of the ultra cultured crowd to come and listen to your son’s adventures. I shall let my hair grow, raise again the beautiful whiskers that were four days ago sacrificed on the altar of comfort and decency (tell Ruth I have preserved a photo with them on) and satisfy the craving of society for something novel.

Mater, dear, you always claimed I was a good deal “Randolph” in my exterior; did the R’s ever run into red hair? My whiskers—save the mark—were of a hue which an enemy of your proud Virginia ancestry might designate as—red! Please don’t mention it to Ruth; the photo doesn’t show the color and she might be shocked.

Now, Mother dear, be happy and be sure to be just as pretty as you always were. I think the natural bird will be ready to be substituted for the fatted calf by the time I get home, because—Thanksgiving will put me at your table and—Oh, won’t the turkey taste good!Love to Ruthie and thousands of kisses to you both, dearest mother.

Ever Your Loving Admirer and Son.

“Apropos! If Ruth really pesters you as she surely will and starts a guessing match—tell her the lady is five foot eleven, hair raven and eyes—a deep violet bordering on purplish black—she’s proud and has refused me three times. I am going to follow her into her retreat, play the guitar outside her little window for ten consecutive nights, moonlight or no light. If she melts under the influence of the sweet strains, my pleadings and the proofs of dad’s wealth—I shall bring her home dragging her along by a chain of Marshal Niel roses; if she remains cold and disdainful—she, I mean Ruth, can pick the girl for me in old America. But mind you—only one at a time, please, for safety’s sake. You must remember I have dwelt in the Orient for two years, and the Orient—you recall the hundred wives of Solomon? So don’t subject me to the charms of more than one divine lady at a time. Love to all—I mean you of course and not the prospective ladies!—John.”

The writing and sending of the cables and letters quieted John’s mind; he had acquitted himself of his filial duties for the time being at least. With renewed zest he again entered into his plans for the enterprise before him—and it was not until a very late hour that he found his bed.

The steamer reached Ishmaila and Port Said in good time. Here he received his one cable answer from his father informing him that the delay would not matter in the least and wishing him good luck and an early termination of the new work. Agents in Rome and Brindisi had been notified to honor his drafts.

Early next morning the Mediterranean was entered and the last stretch of the voyage begun.

Count Rondell had become feebler and appeared less frequently and for shorter periods on deck or in the smoking room. His features had become duller and John caught Dr. Brown more than once looking anxiously at his new friend. The Count never complained, rarely referred to his health at all and, when with John, would speak only of his country and his early life. Each interview served but to knit him and John more closely together.

One afternoon, when Morton, as usual, was visiting the count in his stateroom, he found the old man strangely silent and seemingly very depressed. John tried to draw him into conversation, asking questions about his beloved Roumelia, but the Count replied only in monosyllables. He seemed curiously embarrassed. Finally, however, the old man roused himself.

“My dear Mr. Morton—I feel ashamed and humiliated—I am at a loss how to apologize to you.”

John looked at him in astonishment.

“This morning,” continued the Count, “I was visited by some kind-hearted gentlemen who were so courteous as to wish to entertain me in my forced seclusion. I learned from them, for the first time, who you really are. I am distressed to think that I had offered you money as the price of your services. I knew, of course, of a Mr. Morton, one of the financial bulwarks of the Western world, but I never thought of connecting you with him. I humbly beg your forgiveness.”

“My dear Count, pray, don’t distress yourself on that account. We can devote the money to the expenses of the undertaking itself if it is needed. Let us not refer to it again, Your Excellency.” John spoke heartily and with emphasis.

“You are very good. You absolve me, Mr. Morton?”

“Absolutely, Count.”

“I am greatly relieved. Thank you.”

By the time they had arrived at the Italian littoral Morton was well posted on Roumelia and also completely in love with his tutor’s daughter. It gave him a curious pleasure to hear the father talk about his child. The Count never, for a moment, suspected that John was skillfully guiding the conversation to that subject, for he himself was an enthusiast on it. John, on the other hand, did not realize that he was playing with fire but sat opposite the old man and kept saying to himself, “You don’t know what I am thinking, old chap! I wonder what you’d say, if you did know? I am ready to fall in love with your daughter, head over heels! Just you wait— I hope you’ll like it.”

The Count’s valet had made a very excellent print of the photograph selected and this copy was now safely stowed away in Morton’s breast pocket. It remained there until he reached the privacy of his stateroom, and then he placed it in the palm of his hand and gave free vent to his excited imagination.

She did have beautiful eyes, this “little HelÈne!”