The morning sunlight penetrated the room riotously, merrily defying the azure silk and lace muffling the windows, glinting in every polished surface and running golden-footed from point to point. Lying tranquilly among his pillows, Allard watched the man busied in folding and laying away a multitudinous array of garments, placing gloves and handkerchiefs in drawers and arranging toilet articles.

"You are not Petro," Allard remarked finally.

The man started and turned.

"No, monsieur. With monsieur's permission, I am Vladimir. His Royal Highness said that as monsieur had not yet engaged a valet for the voyage, perhaps I might be accepted. I would be very glad to serve monsieur."

"Very well," Allard assented. Stanief was not to be contradicted, but certainly embarrassment seemed unavoidable in view of an absent wardrobe. Dancla had been of a decidedly different figure from his successor. "What time is it?"

"Nearly ten o'clock, monsieur," and he approached and kissed the hand outside the coverlet before the surprised American could object. "Every thanks, monsieur; I am monsieur's devoted servant. It pleases monsieur to rise?"

"I—suppose so. The yacht has stopped."

"Yes, monsieur. We are anchored before the great city, New York, since many hours."

Allard had yet to learn his Stanief; the time was to come, when to know an affair in his charge was to abandon anxiety concerning it. The question of the wardrobe was embarrassing only from its overwhelming answer. Never even in the other days had Allard, naturally simple in tastes, provided himself with the lavish and sybaritic completeness he found awaiting him now. No detail was forgotten; the very toilet-table bore its shining array, each dainty article carrying the correct monogram, J. L. A. Marveling, Allard pictured what it meant to have produced this in one night; and vaguely realized that there must be a deeper object than mere consideration for his comfort, behind all this unnecessary elaboration.

Breakfast was served in his own miniature salon.

"His Royal Highness is awake?" he inquired.

"Monsieur, his Royal Highness went ashore an hour ago, to pay farewell visits of ceremony."

They were to sail soon, then. Allard's pulses quickened with relief at the prospect. Remembering Stanief's expressive injunction to show himself at ease and make friends with his new companions, he resolved to go on deck. But before the white and silver writing-desk he lingered wistfully.

"You can mail a letter for me, Vladimir?"

"Certainly, monsieur."

The letter must be convincing, and not dangerous in the wrong hands. With a tenderness that was almost pain he recalled the last signed letter to his brother, written on that final night at home, while Robert sat by with hidden eyes. A letter he had headed South America, the date blank, to be used as explanation to Theodora and her mother if the crash came and he disappeared for years.

The thick cream-tinted paper was convincing in itself, bearing in gilt letters the name of the yacht, Nadeja.

My Dear Old Robert:

I have just returned from the South, and of course intended to come straight home. But I met H. R. H. the Grand Duke Feodor Stanief, who has been visiting the United States, and he is taking me with him as his secretary. I owe him more than I can tell, or you guess, Bertie; and this service is a service of love. I will write again; you know there was no opportunity where I have been.

Give my love to Aunt Rose and Theo—is she quite my sister by this time?

Very happily and lovingly, my brother,

Your brother,

John Allard.

Like a girl he touched the letter to his lips before putting it in the envelop. Robert would watch the eastern newspapers, he knew, and couple the two stories together.

The lower Hudson was swept by a strong salt wind when Allard reached the deck, green and white waves running under the bright sunshine and lashed to swirling froth by the innumerable boats plowing back and forth. On the yacht everything was activity and preparation, all sound overborne by the crash of loading coal. The busy Captain Delsar left his affairs and came to greet the guest punctiliously, if hurriedly.

"We sail this morning," he explained, "and you will understand all that involves for me, monsieur."

Allard responded cordially; it was so wonderful, so beautiful, just to meet other men again and be himself. And presently Lieutenant Vasili came to add his cheerful greeting and lead the way to the forward deck, where wicker chairs and small tables stood under a gay scarlet awning.

"His Royal Highness told me this morning to amuse you, if I could," he declared. "Indeed, I think he left me behind for that purpose, Monsieur John."

"Allard," the other corrected pleasantly. "I am infinitely obliged to his Royal Highness, then, I am sure."

"A thousand pardons; I misunderstood your name last night."

"Not exactly, his Royal Highness calls me John, my Christian name."

Vasili's eyes opened and he regarded his companion with marked respect.

"He told me he had known you a long time," he assented, "and that you had been ill. The voyage across will tone you up—if you are a good sailor—before we reach home."

"I am a good sailor," Allard affirmed, rather astonished at Stanief's account of his health. He had no idea of the extreme delicacy of his own appearance, of how those years of torture had left him worn and colorless.

Vasili tilted his chair against the rail and smiled engagingly.

"For my part I am always happiest at sea," he confided. "Not that I am concerned with political affairs—pas si bÊte; I leave that for wiser heads. But still one is never secure in a country like ours. I walk straight ahead without asking questions, and hope the Grand Duke sees I am doing no more; nevertheless, one is more comfortable at sea. Ah, this America is a restful place! No intrigues, no rivals, no salt-mines in the background."

"A delightful picture you are painting for me," suggested Allard laughingly.

"Oh, you are the friend of his Royal Highness, monsieur. Moreover, every one believes an American or an Englishman when he declares himself with one party; it is only each other whom we always suspect. Tiens, the little white boat!"

The little white boat in question was one of the city police launches, and Allard's hand closed sharply on the arm of his chair as the officer in charge hailed the yacht, signifying his intention of coming on board. Captain Delsar went down to receive the visitors, not without visible impatience at the interruption.

"Come," exclaimed the diverted Vasili, after watching the colloquy for a few moments, during which several of the yacht's officers joined their chief. "If it is droll!"

"What is it?"

"Why, of course we all speak French—as does every one at home except peasants—but since Dancla went only the Grand Duke is left who speaks English. And evidently our guests have no French."

Allard surveyed the group, and glanced up at the gorgeous flag fluttering in the breeze and casting its shadow over him. Foreign ground, Stanief had called this.

"I might play interpreter," he offered slowly.

"Surely! Am I dull not to think of that? Shall we go?"

The mutually exasperated group paused to look at the pair coming down the deck toward them, Vasili in his gold-laced uniform and the gentleman in yachting flannels.

"Monsieur Allard, if you will indeed assist us!" welcomed the captain gratefully. "Consider that we sail in an hour, and the moments are going. His Royal Highness does not accept an excuse instead of a result."

"Delighted," Allard responded, nodding an acknowledgment of the sergeant's equally relieved salute. "Officer, can I translate for you? His Royal Highness is not on board, but I am his secretary—"

Oh, Stanief was very thorough! The cards Vladimir had presented were waiting for their owner to use on the occasion.

"You are very kind, Mr. Allard," said the deferential officer, reading the square of pasteboard. "You see, we received a telephone call from up the river at Peekskill, asking us to get a better description of the clothes that were stolen by an escaping convict. They've picked up a coat, but it looks rather different from what would be expected. In fact, there was a man inside of it; but he says he lost his hat in the wind, and they haven't yet got the prison people to identify him."

It was so long since Allard had really laughed that he startled himself, but the humor of the situation was too much.

"I think you want to see the Grand Duke's valet," he explained, and translated for the others.

Petro was hurriedly sent for, and the fuming captain left the affair in charge of the two young men.

"Poor wretch; hope he gives them a run," commented Vasili. "Last year, at home, I had to ride second-class on a crowded train. In the compartment was just such a case as this man's,—convict being taken back to a fortress. We rode ten miles, twenty; suddenly he spoke to me as naturally as possible. 'You know what I'm going to; give me a cigar,' he said, just like that. I gave his guards a ruble, gave him a cigar, and went on reading my Figaro. Before we reached the next station, just over a deep ravine, he flung himself right through the door and down. Always felt glad I gave him the cigar."

There was a curious unreality in the scene for one of the actors, as he leaned listening against the rail in the warm April sunshine, Vasili chatting gaily by his side and the imperturbable policeman opposite. But he answered the little lieutenant's last sentence with a very sympathetic glance of comprehension.

Petro appeared presently, and Allard gravely repeated a description of the famous rain coat, giving the name of the English firm that had made it.

"Thank you, sir," said the satisfied officer, snapping shut his note-book. "Much obliged. You've no objection if your name gets to the papers, sir?"

Allard thought of Robert.

"Why, no, none at all. But I have done nothing."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

"And now?" queried Vasili. "Shall we go back and chat, or first go over the yacht? Unless you know it already, of course; I forget you are an old friend of his Royal Highness."

"Let us go over the yacht, if you will," Allard evaded, not at all certain of what Stanief might please to assert. He sighed relievedly, hearing the puff of the launch below. "We can rest afterward."

Vasili contemplated him reflectively, inwardly deciding that Stanief's American must have been very ill indeed to be so easily tired. But he led the way below, charmed with the new companionship, and they wandered together over the costly floating toy.

They ended in the general salon, and Allard's long-starved eyes went eagerly to the magazines and newspapers littering the table.

"Pleasant place," assented Vasili to the expression, dropping into an easy-chair. "And you will usually find some of us here. Of course, Count Rosal is ashore now with the Grand Duke, but he will be enchanted to learn that you are going with us. These voyages nearly kill him with ennui. He likes fast horses and fast motorcars, and the ThÉÂtre FranÇais."

"Then why does he come?" Allard inquired interestedly.

"Why? There is a question! Because he is the Grand Duke's aide, because he wants to win favor with the man who will rule the country by the time we reach it."

"Why, the Emperor—"

Vasili raised one eyebrow significantly.

"Of course, if you do not want to talk," in slightly injured tones. "But every one knows that the Emperor is dying."

Allard summoned his recollections of affairs European, doubtfully allowing for the gap of more than two years.

"The Grand Duke Feodor is the Emperor's nephew, not his son," he objected.

"Oh, he will only be regent, certainly," was the dry reply. "Never mind; I told you I understood nothing of politics."

Allard opened his lips to avow equal ignorance, then closed them. He had no idea of the rÔle Stanief designed for him, or of what he was supposed to know. He moved to the table, instead of answering, and let his gaze devour the topmost paper of the pile. Vasili watched him, deeply impressed by the reticence and a little anxious as to his own frankness. When Allard again turned to him, the lieutenant welcomed the amity with relief and joyously accepted the suggestion of return to the deck.

The morning wore on quietly. The preparations for sailing were completed; the yacht poised restlessly like a snowy bird on the point of flight. Allard no less quivered with the restless desire for departure, the thirst for the peace which would come with absolute security. Lying in his chair, regarding the teeming river shut in on either side by the two great cities and feeling all alike hostile toward him, he clung almost superstitiously to the phrase of the night before:

"A Stanief guards his own."

And not all content with bare liberty, he treasured the being no longer an outlaw; he had learned the old primitive ache of the "masterless man."

Near noon a tiny boat darted from shore. The captain hurried to the head of the miniature stairway; Vasili uttered a hasty excuse and also went in that direction. Allard hesitated, in some doubt before this new etiquette, then judged by the others' attitude and remained where he was.

As Stanief stepped on the deck, another gorgeous flag rose majestically into place and unfolded its emblazoned notice of his presence. His drowsy black eyes swept over the scene comprehensively, then he gave a brief order to the captain and crossed directly to Allard. And Allard, rising to receive him, suddenly felt his heart quicken with a strange, familiar violence. "We Allards love more than other people," Robert had said. This was what he was giving Stanief, he realized with something like dismay,—that passion of fierce un-English intensity which considered nothing and made him its plaything. He had not meant to care like that again—

"Good morning, John," said the cool, faintly imperious voice; the warmly dark eyes met his.

Sighing, Allard yielded up the last resistance and gave his all.

"Your Royal Highness—" he murmured, and hated himself for the unsteadiness of his tone.

Stanief sank into a chair and waved him to the one opposite.

"We are going to sail at once," he announced. "We will watch our progress out of the harbor and then have lunch. You have passed an agreeable morning?"

"Yes—no," answered Allard incoherently, taken by surprise. "That is, everything is right now."

Interpreting for himself, Stanief smiled.

"Tell me about it," he suggested.

The ringing of anchor chains ceased, the little launch again swung in its davits. The yacht shuddered, moved. Vasili came up and saluted rigidly.

"I have the honor to report that we sail."

Stanief rested his dark head against the chair-back and met the brilliant gray eyes with the sweet serenity of his own.