Prince Peretori was a by no means unpopular figure with those who knew him both personally and by reputation. He had in him that strain of wild blood that seems peculiar to all the Balkan peninsula, where so many extravagant things are done. In bygone days Peretori would have been a romantic figure. As it was, Western civilization had gone far to spoil his character. Audacious deeds and elaborate practical jokes filled up the measure of his spare time. For some months under a pseudonym he was a prominent figure at a Vienna theatre. It was only when his identity became threatened that he had to abandon his latest fad.

But he was feeling deeply chagrined and mortified over his last escapade. It never occurred to him at the time that he was doing any real harm. The King of Asturia, his cousin, he had always disliked and despised; for the king he had the highest admiration. And it looked as if he had done the latter an incalculable injury.

That he had been touched on the raw of his vanity and made the catspaw of others added fuel to his wrath. It would be no fault of his if he did not get even the Countess Saens. He would take that money and pretend that he enjoyed the joke. But it was going to be a costly business for Countess Saens and her ally Prince Mazaroff.

Peretori had pretty well made up his mind what line to take by the time he had reached the house of the countess. The place was all in darkness, as if everybody had retired for the night; but Peretori had his own reasons for believing that the countess had not returned home. If necessary he would wait on the doorstep for her.

But perhaps the door was not fastened? With spies about, the countess might feel inclined to keep the house in darkness. As a matter of fact the door was not fastened, and Peretori slipped quietly into the hall. He had no fear of being discovered, if he were discovered he had only to say that he had come back for the reward of his latest exploit. To the countess he had made no secret of the desperate nature of his pecuniary affairs.

The house seemed absolutely at rest, there could be no doubt that the servants had all gone to bed. Peretori stood in the hall a little undecided what to do next. His sharp ears were listening intently. It seemed to him presently that he could hear the sound of somebody laughing in a subdued kind of way. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, a thread of light from under a distant door crossed his line of vision. Then there was the smothered explosion that was unmistakably made by a champagne cork.

Peretori crept along to the door under which the track of light peeped. The door was pulled to, but the latch had not caught. Very quietly Peretori pushed the door back so that he could look in. It was more or less as he had expected. Seated at a table where a dainty supper had been laid out was a man who had the unmistakable hall-mark of a gentleman's servant written all over him. On the other side of the table sat the countess's maid Annette.

"Another glass," the maid was saying. "It is a brand of the best. Nothing comes into this house but the best, ma foi! And no questions asked where things go to. So help yourself, mon Robert! There is no chance of being interrupted."

The man sat there grinning uneasily. There was no conspirator here, Peretori decided. The man was no more than a shrewd cockney servant—none too honest over trifles, perhaps, but he was not the class of man that political conspirators are made of. It was a romance of the kitchen on Robert's side.

"Bit risky, ain't it?" he said as he pulled at his champagne. "If your mistress catches us——"

"There is no fear of that, Robert. She is in bed sound asleep long ago. Nothing wakes or disturbs her. She undressed herself to-night; she dispensed with my services. Oh, a good thing!"

"But risky sometimes, eh?" Robert said. "Lor, the trouble that some of 'em give!"

"Oh, they have no heart, no feeling. It is slave, slave, slave! But we make them pay for it. I make her pay for it. And when I am ready to go back to Switzerland, I know that I have not worked in vain. And she called me a liar and a thief to-night."

Robert muttered something sympathetic. He had no wish for Annette to go back to Switzerland, he said. He had saved a little also. Did not Annette think that a respectable boarding house or something select in the licensed victualling line might do? The girl smiled coquettishly.

"And perhaps something better," she said, dropping her voice to a whisper. "I am not dishonest, I do no more than other ladies in my position. Not that the perquisites are not handsome. But sometimes one has great good luck. She call me thief and liar to-night; she say I not tell the truth when I say she was robbed to-night. I show her the real thief, and still she is doubtful. The real thief took those papers. Mind you, they were papers of great value. That is certain. Suppose those papers came into my possession! Suppose I read them, and find them immense importance! Suppose that they don't belong to the countess at all, that she has got them by a trick!"

Peretori listened eagerly. Now that he was au fait of the situation, he knew exactly what Annette was talking about. He blessed his stars that he had come here to-night. Without doubt Annette was talking of the papers missing from the Foreign Office.

"Sounds good," Robert said. "Worth fifty or sixty pounds to somebody else perhaps."

"Worth ten thousand pounds!" Annette went on in the same fierce whisper. "That money with what we have saved, eh? We could take a boarding house in Mount Street and make a fortune, you and I, my Robert. Look you, these papers vanish, they are taken by a lady in a black dress. My mistress she say the lady meet with an accident and is taken to a hospital. The police come in and ask questions—ma foi! they ask questions till my head ache. Then they go away again, and my mistress leave the house again. My head ache so that I go and walk up and down the pavement to get a breath of air."

"Sounds like a scene in a play," Robert said encouragingly. "Go on, ducky!"

"As I stood there a policeman come up to me. I know that policeman; he is young to his work—he admires me. You need not look so jealous, my Robert, it is not the police where my eyes go. But he has heard of the robbery. Not that he knows its importance—no, no! He can tell all about the lady in Piccadilly who was run over. And behold he has picked up a packet of papers!"

"Good business!" Robert exclaimed. "You're something like a story-teller, Annette."

"That packet of papers he show me," Annette went on gaily. "There is an elastic band round them, and under the band an envelope with the crest of the countess upon it. Those papers were to be give up to Scotland Yard, mark you. But not if Annette knows anything about her man. Behold in a few minutes those papers are in my pocket. It is a smile, a little kiss, and the thing is done! Frown not, Robert, I have no use for that soft young policeman."

"You're a jolly deep one, that's what you are," Robert said with profound admiration. "I should like to know what those papers are all about. I suppose you've read 'em?"

"No; they are in French, the French used by the educated classes. The language is very different to my Swiss. But I have a friend who will be able to tell me what they are all about. Meanwhile, the papers are carefully hidden away where they cannot be found. My policeman, he dare not speak; even if he did, I could say that the papers were rubbish which I had thrown away. But the countess she call me a liar and a thief. She shall never see them again. What's that?"

A sudden violent ringing of the front door bell startled the supper party and the listener in the hall. Robert rose and grabbed his hat as if prepared for flight.

"No, no!" the fertile Annette whispered. "Don't go. I'll reply to that bell. It is easy to say that I have not gone to bed, and that I came down. Stay where you are. You are quite safe. It may be a cablegram, they sometimes come quite late at night. Just turn down the light."

Peretori stepped into one of the darkened rooms and awaited events. He saw Annette come into the hall and flick up the glaring electrics. In her usual demure way she opened the front door and confronted a fussy little man who stood on the step.

"Your mistress," he said hurriedly. "Your mistress. I must see her at once—at once!"

"But my mistress has gone to bed," Annette protested. "She is asleep for some time, and——"

"Then you must wake her up," the little man said. "At once. It is no use to make a fuss, my good girl, I am bound to see the countess. Tell her that Mr. Hunt is here—Mr. Hunt of the Mercury, whose business will not brook delay."