He slipped past the King and through the crowd of hotel officials into
the hall and on into the corridor.

The arrest had taken place so quietly and so quickly that through the
heavy glass doors no sound had penetrated, and of the fact that they
had been so close to a possible tragedy those in the corridor were still
ignorant. The members of the Hungarian orchestra were arranging their
music; a waiter was serving two men of middle age with sherry; and two
distinguished-looking elderly gentlemen seated together on a sofa were
talking in leisurely whispers.

One of the two middle-aged men was well known to Philip, who as a
reporter had often, in New York, endeavored to interview him on matters
concerning the steel trust. His name was Faust. He was a Pennsylvania
Dutchman from Pittsburgh, and at one time had been a foreman of the
night shift in the same mills he now controlled. But with a roar and
a spectacular flash, not unlike one of his own blast furnaces, he had
soared to fame and fortune. He recognized Philip as one of the bright
young men of the Republic; but in his own opinion he was far too
self-important to betray that fact.

Philip sank into an imitation Louis Quatorze chair beside a fountain in
imitation of one in the apartment of the Pompadour, and ordered what
he knew would be an execrable imitation of an American cocktail. While
waiting for the cocktail and Lady Woodcote's luncheon party, Philip,
from where he sat, could not help but overhear the conversation of Faust
and of the man with him. The latter was a German with Hebraic features
and a pointed beard. In loud tones he was congratulating the American
many-time millionaire on having that morning come into possession of
a rare and valuable masterpiece, a hitherto unknown and but recently
discovered portrait of Philip IV by Velasquez.

Philip sighed enviously.

"Fancy," he thought, "owning a Velasquez! Fancy having it all to
yourself! It must be fun to be rich. It certainly is hell to be poor!"

The German, who was evidently a picture-dealer, was exclaiming in tones
of rapture, and nodding his head with an air of awe and solemnity.

"I am telling you the truth, Mr. Faust," he said. "In no gallery in
Europe, no, not even in the Prado, is there such another Velasquez. This
is what you are doing, Mr. Faust, you are robbing Spain. You are robbing
her of something worth more to her than Cuba. And I tell you, so soon
as it is known that this Velasquez is