his hand near a receiver. His fingers
trembled.

"You will speak in French. A syllable of Russian, just one, and--" Mr.
Heatherbloom's expression left no doubt as to his meaning.

"Dog!" His excellency's swollen face became the hue of paper. An instant
he seemed about to spring--then managed to control himself. "But why
should I not speak in Russian? My officers know no French."

"A lie! Nearly all Russian officers speak French. I happen to know yours
do." A newspaper article had made the statement and he did not doubt it.
"Anyhow, you give the order in French and we'll see what happens."

The blood surged in the nobleman's face. The fierce desire to avenge
himself at once on this man who threw the lie at him--august,
illustrious--mingled, however, with yet another feeling--one of
bewilderment. The fellow had spoken these last words in French, and
choice French at that. His accents had all the elegance of the Faubourg
Saint Germain.

"Quick!" The decision in the intruder's manner was unmistakable. "I have
wasted all the time I intend to. My finger trembles on the trigger."

The prince, perforce, _was_ quick. The telephone of foreign design, had
two receivers. His excellency took one. Mr. Heatherbloom reached for the
other and held it to his ear with his left hand. His right, holding the
weapon, was behind the prince, as the latter poignantly realized.
Ill-suppressed rage made his excellency's tones now slightly wavering:

"Are you there, M. le Capitaine?"

"Steady!" Mr. Heatherbloom whispered warningly in his excellency's free
ear, emphasizing the caution with a significant pressure from his right
hand. At the same time he caught the answer from afar--a deferential
voice:

"_Oui,_ Excellence." There was, fortunately, on the wires a singing
sound that would serve to drown evidences of emotion in the nobleman's
tone. "Excellence wishes to speak with me?" went on the distant voice.

"I do." The prince breathed fast--paused. "You will change the boat's
course, and--" He spoke with difficulty. A warmer breath fanned his
cheek; he felt a sensation like ice on the back of his neck. "Make for
the nearest American port. How far is it?" Mr. Heatherbloom's prompting
whisper was audible only to his excellency.

"Five hours," came over the wire.

Mr. Heatherbloom experienced a thrill of satisfaction. They were nearer
the coast than he had supposed. He knew the yacht had been taking a
southerly course; he had considered