with all the
importance of having made the suggestion. "We can hardly proceed in
due order without proofs, sir."

The prince turned toward the curtain at the room's end and the youth
appeared once more, this time bearing a light oval casket of
delicate workmanship. It was of a substance resembling both glass
and metal of changing, rainbow tints, and it passed through St.
George's mind as he observed it that there must be, to give such a
dazzling and unreal effect, more than seven colours in the spectrum.

"A spectrum of seven colours," said the prince at the same moment,
"could not, of course, produce this surface. I confess that until I
came to this country I did not know that you had so few colours. Our
spectrum already consists of twelve colours visible to the naked
eye, and at least five more are distinguishable through our powerful
magnifying glasses."

St. George was silent. It was as if he had suddenly been permitted
to look past the door that bars and threatens all knowledge.

The prince unlocked the casket. He drew out first a quantity of
paper of extreme thinness and lightness on which, embossed and
emblazoned, was the coat of arms of the Hollands--a sheaf of wheat
and an unicorn's head--and this was surmounted by a crown.

"This," said the prince, "is now the device upon the signet ring of
the King of Yaque, the arms of your own family. And here chances to
be a letter from your father containing some instructions to me. It
is true that writing has with us been superseded by wireless
communication, excepting where there is need of great secrecy. Then
we employ the alphabet of any language we choose, these being almost
disused, as are the Cuneiform and Coptic to you."

"And how is it," St. George could not resist asking, "that you know
and speak the English?"

The prince smiled swiftly.

"To you," he said, "who delve for knowledge and who do not know that
it is absolute and to be possessed at will, this can not now be made
clear. Perhaps some day..."

Olivia had taken the paper from the prince and pressed it to her
lips, her eyes filling with tears. There was no mistaking that
evidence, for this was her father's familiar hand.

"Otho always did write a fearful scrawl," Mrs. Hastings commented,
"his l's and his t's and his vowels were all the same height. I used
to tell him that I didn't know whatever people would think."

"I may, moreover," continued the prince, "call to mind several
articles whi