“Th' juke sent his card up, sir,” said Turk, his master was once more in his rooms at the Bellevue. Turk was looking eminently respectable in a new suit of blue serge.

“When?” asked Phil, glancing at Laselli's card. He had forgotten the Italian, and the sight of his name recalled the plot unpleasantly.

“'Bout eleven o'clock. I watched him leave th' hotel an' go down that street over there—th' same one you took a little earlier.”

“Watching me, I suspect. Haven't seen that detective fellow, have you, Turk? You ought to be able to scent a detective three miles away.”

“I can't scent in this language, sir.”

Early in the evening, as Quentin was leaving the hotel for a short stroll, he met the duke. The Italian accosted him familiarly and asked if he were trying to find a cool spot.

“I thought a ride on the tramcars might cool me off a bit,'” said Phil.

“I know the city quite well, and I, too, am searching for relief from the heat. Do you object to company in your ride or stroll?”

“Happy to have you, I assure you. If you'll be good enough to wait here for a moment, till I find my stick, I'll be with you.” The duke bowed politely, and Phil hastened back to his rooms. He secured his stick, and did more. Like a wise young man, he bethought himself of a possible trap, and the quest of the stick gave him the opportunity to instruct Turk to follow him and the duke and to be where he was needed in case of an emergency.

The tall, fresh-faced American in his flannels, and the short, bearded Italian in his trim frock coat and silk hat strolled leisurely forth into the crowded Place du Palais.

“Shall we walk awhile and then find a cafe where we may have something to drink?” asked the duke, his English so imperfect that no writer could reproduce it.

“I am in your hands, and at your mercy,” said the other, clinging close to him as they merged into the crowd.

“May I ask if you have many friends in Brussels?” Under the politeness of the inquiry Quentin, with amusement, saw the real interest. Looking calmly into the Italian's beady eyes, he said:

“I know but four persons here, and you are included in the list. My servant is another. Mrs. and Miss Garrison are old and particular friends, you know. In fact, my dear duke, I don't believe I should have come to Brussels at all were they not here.”

“They are most charming and agreeable,” murmured the duke. “This is such a frightful crowd Shall we not cross to the other side?”

“What's the use? I used to play football—you don't know what that is, I suppose—and I'll show you how to get through a mob. Get in front—that's right—and I'll bring up in the rear.” Laughing to himself, he brought his big frame up against the little man's back and surged forward. Sure enough, they went “through the mob,” but the duke was the volley end of the battering ram. Never in all his life had he made such hurried and seemingly unnecessary progress through a blockading crowd of roisterers. When they finally went lunging into the half-deserted Rue de la Madeleine, his silk hat was awry, his composure was ruffled, and he was very much out of breath. Phil, supremely at ease, heaved a sigh of satisfaction, drawing from the Italian a half-angry, half-admiring glance.

“Much easier than I thought,” said Quentin, puffing quietly at his cigar.

“We did it very nicely,” agreed the other, with a brave effort to equal the American's unconcern. Nevertheless, he said to himself many times before they reached the broad Boulevard Anspach, that never had he taken such “a stroll,” and never had he known how little difference there was between a steam and a human propeller. He almost forgot, as they sat at a small, table in front of a cafe, to institute his diplomatic search for the real object of the American's presence in Brussels.

It was twelve o'clock when they returned to the hotel, after a rather picturesque evening in the gay cafes.

Here is what the keen little Italian deduced: Quentin was to remain in Brussels until he took a notion to go somewhere else; Quentin had seen the prince driving on the Paris boulevards; the Bois de la Cambre offers every attraction to a man who enjoys driving; the American slept with a revolver near his pillow, and his manservant had killed six or seven men in the United States because of his marvellous skill with the pistol; Quentin was a most unsophisticated young man, with honesty and innocence in his frank eyes, although they sometimes grew rather searching; he could only be overcome by cunning; he was in love with Miss Garrison.

Quentin's conclusions: Laselli was a liar and an ass; Prince Ugo would be in Brussels within ten days; he was careless with the hearts of women and cruel with their love; French detectives are the best in the world, the most infallible; Miss Garrison loved the very ground the prince trod upon. He also discovered that the duke could drink wine as a fish drinks water, and that he seldom made overtures to pay for it until his companion had the money in hand, ready to do so.

Turk was waiting for him when he reached his rooms, and Turk was not amiable. A very attractive, innocent and demure young lady, who could not speak English except with her hands and eyes, had relieved him of a stickpin and his watch while he sat with her at a table not far from the man he was protecting with his vaunted “eagle eye.”

“An' she swiped 'em right under me nose, an' me eyes square on her, too. These people are too keen for me. They ain't a fairy in New York that could 'a' touched me without d' dope, lemme tell you. I t'ought I knowed a t'ing er two, but I don't know buttons from fishhooks. I'm d' easiest t'ing 'at ever went to Sunday school.”

It was with a flushed, rebellious face that Miss Garrison stepped into the victoria the next afternoon for the drive to the Bois de la Cambre. She had come from a rather trying tilt with her mother, and, as they drove off between the rows of trees, she felt that a pair of flaming eyes were levelled from a certain upstairs window in the Avenue Louise. The Biblical admonition to “honor thy father and thy mother” had not been entirely disregarded by this willful young lady, but it had been stretched to an unusual limit for the occasion. She felt that she was very much imposed upon by circumstances in the shape of an unreasonable mother and an inconvenient friend.

Mr. Quentin, more in love than ever, and more deeply inspired by the longing to win where reason told him he must fail, did not flatter himself into believing that Mrs. Garrison wholly approved of the drive. Instead, he surmised from the beginning that Dorothy's flushed cheeks were not from happiness, but from excitement, and that he was not altogether a shadowy cause. With rare tact he plunged at once to the bottom of the sea of uncertainty and began to struggle upward to the light, preferring such a course to the one where you start at the top, go down and then find yourself powerless to get back to the surface.

“Was your mother very much annoyed when you said you were coming out with me?” he asked. She started and a queer little tinge of embarrassment sprang into her eyes.

“How absurd!” she said, readily, however. “Isn't the avenue beautiful?”

“I don't know—yet,” he said, without looking at the avenue. “What did she say?” Miss Garrison did not reply, but looked straight ahead as if she had not heard him. “See here, Dorothy, I'm not a child and I'm not a lovesick fool. Just curious, that's all. Your mother has no cause to be afraid of me—”

“You flatter yourself by imagining such a thing as—”

“—because there isn't any more danger that I shall fall in love with you than there is of—of—well, of your falling in love with me; and you know how improbable—”

“I don't see any occasion to refer to love in any way,” she said, icily. “Mamma certainly does not expect me to do such an extraordinary thing. If you will talk sensibly, Phil, we may enjoy the drive, but if you persist in talking of affairs so ridiculous—”

“I can't say that I expect you to fall in love with me, so for once your mother and I agree. Nevertheless, she didn't want you to come with me,” he said, absolutely undisturbed.

“How do you know she didn't?” she demanded, womanlike. Then, before she was quite aware of it, they were in a deep and earnest discussion of Mrs. Garrison, and her not very complimentary views.

“And how do you feel about this confounded prospect, Dorothy? You are not afraid of what a few gossips—noble or otherwise—may say about a friendship that is entirely the business of two people and not the property of the general public? If you feel that I am in the way I'll gladly go, you know. Of course, I'd rather hate to miss seeing you once in a while, but I think I'd have the courage to—”

“Oh, it's not nice of you to be sarcastic,” she cried, wondering, however, whether he really meant “gladly” when he said it. Somehow she felt herself admitting that she was piqued by his apparent readiness to abdicate. She did not know that he was cocksure of his ground before making the foregoing and other observations equally as indifferent.

“I'm not sarcastic; quite the reverse. I'm very serious. You know how much I used to think of you—”

“But that was long ago, and you were such a foolish boy,” she cried, interrupting nervously.

“Yes, I know; a boy must have his foolish streaks. How a fellow changes as he gets older, and how he looks back and laughs at the fancies he had when a boy. Same way with a girl, though, I suppose.” He said it so calmly, so naturally that she took a sly peep at his face. It revealed nothing but blissful imperturbability.

“I'm glad you agree with me. You see, I've always thought you were horribly broken up when I—when I found that I also was indulging in a foolish streak. I believe I came to my senses before you did, though, and saw how ridiculous it all was. Children do such queer things, don't they?” It was his turn to take a sly peep, and his spirits went down a bit under the pressure of her undisguised frankness.

“How lucky it was we found it out before we ran away with each other, as we once had the nerve to contemplate. Gad, Dorothy, did you ever stop to think what a mistake it would have been?” She was bowing to some people in a brougham, and the question was never answered. After a while he went on, going back to the original subject. “I shall see Mrs. Garrison to-night and talk it over with her. Explain to her, you know, and convince her that I don't in the least care what the gossips say about me. I believe I can live it all down, if they do say I am madly, hopelessly in love with the very charming fiancee of an Italian prince.”

“You have me to reckon with, Phil; I am the one to consider and the one to pass judgment. You may be able to appease mamma, but it is I who will determine whether it is to be or not to be. Let us drop the subject. For the present, we are having a charming drive. Is it not beautiful?”

To his amazement and to hers, when they returned late in the afternoon Mrs. Garrison asked him to come back and dine.

“I must be dreaming,” he said to himself, as he drove away. “She's as shrewd as the deuce, and there's a motive in her sudden friendliness. I'm beginning to wonder how far I'll drop and how hard I'll hit when this affair explodes. Well, it's worth a mighty strenuous effort. If I win, I'm the luckiest fool on earth; if I lose, the surprise won't kill me.” At eight he presented himself again at the Garrison house and found that he was not the only guest. He was introduced to a number of people, three of whom were Americans, the others French. These were Hon. and Mrs. Horace Knowlton and their daughter, Miss Knowlton, M. and Mme. de Cartier, Mile. Louise Gaudelet and Count Raoul de Vincent.

“Dorothy tells me you are to be in Brussels for several weeks, and I was sure you would be glad to know some of the people here. They can keep you from being lonesome, and they will not permit you to feel that you are a stranger in a strange land,” said Mrs. Garrison. Quentin bowed deeply to her, flashed a glance of understanding at Dorothy, and then surveyed the strangers he was to meet. Quick intelligence revealed her motive in inviting him to meet these people, and out of sheer respect for her shrewdness he felt like applauding. She was cleverly providing him with acquaintances that any man might wish to possess, and she was doing it so early that the diplomacy of her action was as plain as day to at least two people.

“Mamma is clever, isn't she?” Dorothy said to him, merrily, as they entered the dining-room. Neither was surprised to find that he had been chosen to take her out. It was in the game.

“She is very kind. I can't say how glad I am to meet these people. My stay here can't possibly be dull,” he said. “Mile. Gaudelet is stunning, isn't she?”

“Do you really think so?” she asked, and she did not see his smile.

The dinner was a rare one, the company brilliant, but there was to occur, before the laughter in the wine had spent itself, an incident in which Philip Quentin figured so conspicuously that his wit as a dinner guest ceased to be the topic of subdued side talk, and he took on a new personality.