For two weeks Phil Quentin did not allow Dorothy to forget the old association, and then came the day of her departure for Paris. Mrs. Garrison was by no means reluctant to leave London,—not that she disliked the place or the people, but that one Philip Quentin had unceremoniously, even gracefully, stepped into the circle of her contentment, rudely obliterating its symmetrical, well-drawn lines.

Mr. Quentin had much to overcome if he contemplated an assault upon the icy reserve with which Dorothy Garrison's mother regarded his genial advances. She recalled the days when her daughter and he were “silly, lovesick children,” and there was not much comfort to be derived from the knowledge that he had grown older and more attractive, and that he lost no opportunity to see the girl who once held his heart in leash. The mother was too diplomatic to express open displeasure or to offer the faintest objection to this renewal of friendship. If it were known that she opposed the visits of the handsome American, all London would wonder, speculate, and finally understand. Her disapproval could only be construed as an acknowledgment that she feared the consequences of association; it would not be long before the story would be afloat that all was not smooth in the love affairs of a certain prince, and that the fires of an old affection were burning brightly and merrily in the face of a wrathful parent's opposition.

In secret, Dorothy herself was troubled more than she cared to admit by the reappearance of one who could not but awaken memories of other days, fondly foolish though they were. He was still the same old Phil, grown older and handsomer, and he brought with him embarrassing recollections. He was nothing more to her now than an old-time friend, and she was nothing to him. She loved Ugo Ravorelli, and, until he appeared suddenly before her in London, Philip Quentin was dead to her thoughts. And yet she felt as if she were playing with a fire that would leave its scar—not on her heart or Quentin's, perhaps, but on that of the man she was to marry.

It required no great strength of vision to see that Ravorelli was jealous, and it was just as plain that Quentin saw and enjoyed the uneasiness he was causing. She could not know, of course, that the American had deliberately planned to play havoc with the peace and comfort of her lover, for she recognized no motive. How could she know that Giovanni Pavesi, the tenor, and Prince Ravorelli were one and the same to Philip Quentin? How could she know that the beautiful Malban was slain in Rio Janeiro, and that Philip Quentin had seen a handsome, dark-eyed youth led to and from the murderer's dock in that far-away Brazilian city? How, then, could she understand the conflict that waged with herself as the battlefield?

As for Quentin, he was bound by no law or duty to respect the position of Prince Ravorelli. He was convinced that the sometime Romeo had the stain of blood on his delicate hands and that in his heart he concealed the secret of Carmenita Malban's death. In his mind, there was no mistake. Quentin's composure was shaken but once in the fortnight of pleasure preceding Dorothy's departure for Paris. That was when she indignantly, almost tearfully, called his attention to the squib in a London society journal which rather daringly prophesied a “break in the Ravorelli-Garrison match,” and referred plainly to the renewal of an “across-the-Atlantic affection.” When he wrathfully promised to thrash the editor of the paper, she shocked him by saying that he had created “enough of a sensation,” and he went home with the dazed feeling of one who has suffered an unexpected blow.

On the evening before the Garrisons crossed the channel, Lord and Lady Saxondale and Philip Quentin found themselves long after midnight in talk about the coming marriage. Quentin was rather silent. His thoughts seemed far from the room in which he sat, and there was the shadow of a new line about the corners of his mouth.

“I am going to Brussels next week,” he said, deliberately. The others stared at him in amazement.

“To Brussels? You mean New York,” said Lady Frances, faintly.

“New York won't see me for some time. I'm going to make a tour of the continent.

“This is going too far, old man,” cried Lord Bob. “You can't gain anything by following her, and you'll only raise the devil of a row all round. Dash it! stay in London.”

“Thanks for the invitation, Bob, but I've always had a desire to learn something about the miniature Paris. I shall spend some time in Paris, and then go up there to compare the places. Besides, there won't be any row.”

“But there will be, Phil,” cried Lady Saxondale. “You must keep out of this affair. Why, all Europe knows of the wedding, and even now the continent is quietly nursing the gossip of the past two weeks.” She dropped into a chair, perplexed and anxious.

“Let me tell you something, both of you. The events of the past two weeks are tame in comparison with those of the next two months,” said Quentin, a new light in his eye. His tall figure straightened and his nostrils expanded.

“Wha—what do you mean?” floundered Lord Bob.

“Just this: I love Dorothy Garrison, and I'm going to marry her.”

“Good heavens!” was the simultaneous gasp of Lord and Lady Saxondale. And they could not dissuade him. Not only did he convince them that he was in earnest, but before he left for Paris he had made them allies. Ugo's experience in Rio Janeiro shocked Lady Frances so seriously that she became a champion of the American's cause and agreed with Lord Bob that Dorothy should not be sacrificed if it were in their power to prevent. Of course Dickey Savage approved of Quentin's campaign and effectually disposed of Lady Jane's faint objections by saying:

“America for the Americans, Brussels for the Americans, England for the Americans, everything and everybody for the Americans, but nothing at all for these confounded foreigners. Let the Italian marry anybody he pleases, just so long as he doesn't interfere with an American. Let the American marry anybody he pleases, and to perdition with all interference. I'm for America against the world in love or in war.”

“Don't forget, Mr. Savage, that you are a foreigner when on British soil,” remonstrated the Lady Jane, vigorously.

“My dear Lady Jane, an American is at home anywhere in this world. If you could see some of the foreigners that land at Castle Garden you wouldn't blame an American for absolutely, irrevocably and eternally refusing to be called a foreigner, even on the shores of Madagascar. We are willing to be most anything, but I'll be hanged if we'll be foreigners.”

A week later Quentin was in Paris. Savage was to join him in Brussels about the middle of August, and Lord and Lady Saxondale promised faithfully to come to that city at a moment's notice. He went blithely away with the firm conviction in his heart that it was not to be a fool's errand. But he was reckoning without the woman in the case.

“If you do marry her, Quentin, I've got just the place for you to live in, for a while at least. I bought an old castle in Luxemburg a couple of years ago, just because the man who owned it was a friend and needed a few thousand pounds. Frances calls it Castle Craneycrow. It's a romantic place, and would be a great deal better than a cottage for love. You may have it whenever the time comes. Nobody lives there now but the caretaker and a lot of deuced traditions. We can discharge the caretaker and you can make fresh traditions. Think it over, my boy, while you are dispatching the prince, the mamma and the fair victim's ambition to become a real live princess.”

“Don't be sarcastic, Bob,” exclaimed Quentin. “I'll not need your castle. We're going to live in the clouds.”

“Beware of the prince,” said Lady Frances. “He is pretty high himself, you know.”

“Let the prince beware,” laughed back the departing guest. “We can't both live in the same cloud, you know. I'll push him off.”

On the day Quentin left Paris for Brussels he came face to face with Prince Ugo on one of the Parisian boulevards. The handsome Italian was driving with Count Sallaconi and two very attractive ladies. That the meeting was unexpected and undesired was made manifest by the anxious look which the prince shot over his shoulder after the carriage had passed.

When Quentin left Paris that night with Turk and his luggage, he was not the only passenger bound for Brussels. At the Gare du Nord two men, one suspiciously like the Duke Laselli, took a compartment in the coach just ahead of Quentin. The train was due to reach Brussels shortly after midnight, and the American had telegraphed for apartments at the Bellevue. There had been a drizzle of rain all the evening, and it was good to be inside the car, even if the seats were uncomfortable.

Turk and his master were the only passengers in the compartment. The watchful eyes of the former had seen several persons, men and women, pass through the aisle into which the section opened. One woman paused at the entrance as if about to enter. She was fair to look upon and Turk gallantly moved, presenting a roomy end of his seat to her. She passed on, however, and the little ex-burglar glanced sharply at his master as if to accuse him of frightening the fair one away. But Quentin was lying back, half-asleep, and there was nothing repellent about the untroubled expression on his face.

Before reaching Le Cateau the same lady passed the entrance and again glanced inside. Turk was now asleep, but his master was staring dreamily toward the aperture leading to the aisle. He saw the woman's face for an instant, and it gradually dawned upon him that there was something familiar about its beauty. Where had he seen her before? Like the curious American he was, he arose a few minutes later and deliberately walked into the aisle. He passed two compartments before he saw the young woman. She was alone and was leaning back, her eyes closed. Quentin observed that she was young and beautiful and possessed the marks of fashion and refinement. As he stood for a moment looking upon the face of the dozing French woman, more certain than ever that he had seen her recently, she opened her eyes with an affrighted start.

He instantly and in some embarrassment turned to escape the eyes which had caught him in a rare bit of impertinence, but was surprised to hear her call softly:

“Monsieur!”

“Mademoiselle,” he replied, pausing, “can I be of service to you?”

“I must speak with you, M. Quentin. Come inside. I shall detain you but a moment, and it is so very important that you should hear me.” She was now sitting upright, visibly excited and confused, but very much in earnest.

“You know my name,” he said, entering and dropping to the seat beside her. “Where have we met? Your face is familiar, but I am ashamed to admit—”

“We have no time to talk of that. You have never met me, and would not know who I am if I told you. Had it not been for that horrid little man of yours I should have boldly addressed you sooner. I must leave the train at Le Cateau, for I cannot go on to Quevy or Mons. It would not be wise for me to leave France at this time. You do not know me, but I wish to befriend you.”

“Befriend me? I am sure one could not ask for a more charming friend,” said he, smiling gallantly, but now evincing a shade of interest.

“No flattery, Monsieur! It is purely a personal matter with me; this is by no means a pleasure trip. I am running a great risk, but it is for my own sake as much as for yours, so do not thank me. I came from Paris on this train because I could not speak to you at the Gare du Nord. You were watched too closely.”

“Watched? What do you mean?” almost gasped Quentin.

“I can only say that you are in danger and that you have incurred the displeasure of a man who brooks no interference.”

He stared at her for a moment, his mind in a whirl. The thought that she might be mad grew, but was instantly succeeded by another which came like a shock.

“Is this man of noble blood?”

“Yes,” she almost whispered, turning her eyes away.

“And he means to do me harm?”

“I am sure of it.”

“Because?”

“Because he fears your power.”

“In what direction?”

“You know without asking, M. Quentin.”

“And why do you take this interest in me? I am nothing to you.”

“It's because you are not to be treated fairly. Listen. On this train are two men who do not know that I am here, and who would be confounded if they were to see me. They are in one of the forward coaches, and they are emissaries sent on to watch your every movement and to report the progress of your—your business in Brussels. If you become too aggressive before the man who employs them can arrange to come to Brussels, you are to be dealt with in a manner effectual. What is to be done with you, I do not know, but I am certain you are in great danger unless you—” She paused, and a queer expression came into her wide eyes.

“Unless what? You interest me.”

“Unless you withdraw from the contest.”

“You assume that there is a contest of some sort. Well, admitting there is one, I'll say that you may go back to the prince and tell him his scheme doesn't work. This story of yours—pardon me, Mademoiselle is a clever one, and you have done your part well, but I am not in the least alarmed. Kindly return to the man who sent you and ask him to come in your stead if he wants to frighten me. I am not afraid of women, you know.”

“You wrong me, Monsieur; I am not his agent. I am acting purely on my own responsibility, for myself alone. I have a personal object in warning you, but that is neither here nor there. Let me add that I wish you success in the undertaking which now interests you. You must believe me, though, when I say that you are in danger. Forewarned is forearmed. I do not know what steps are to be taken against you; time will expose them. But I do know that you are not to win what you seek.”

“This is a very strange proceeding,” began he, half-convinced of her sincerity.

“We are nearing Le Cateau, and I must leave you. The men of whom I speak are the Duke Laselli and a detective called Courant. I know they are sent to watch you, and they mean you no good. Be careful, for God's sake, Monsieur, for I—I—want you to win!” She was standing now, and with trembling fingers was adjusting a thick veil over her face.

“Why are you so interested in me?” he asked, sharply. “Why do you want me to win—to win, well, to win the battle?”

“Because—” she began, but checked herself. A deep blush spread over her face just as she dropped the veil.

“The cad!” he said, understanding coming to him like a flash. “There is more than one heart at stake.”

“Good-bye and good luck, Monsieur,” she whispered. He held her hand for an instant as she passed him, then she was gone.

Mile after mile from Le Cateau to Quevy found him puzzling over the odd experience of the night. Suddenly he started and muttered, half aloud:

“By thunder, I remember now! It was she who sat beside him in the carriage this morning!”