ll
under the greatest protest. To Malcolm it seemed that he resented even
the necessity for communicating his thoughts to his own daughter.

"I am happy to have been of service to your Grand Ducal Highness," said
Malcolm correctly.

"Yes, yes, yes," interrupted the Grand Duke nervously, "but you will
stay and breakfast with me? Come, I insist, Mr.--er--er----"

"Mr. Hay, father," said the girl.

The conversation throughout was carried on in English, which was not
remarkable, remembering that that was the family language of the Court.

"Yes, yes, yes, Mr. Hay, you must stay to breakfast. You have been very
good, very noble, I am sure. Irene, you must persuade this gentleman."
He held out his hand jerkily and Malcolm took it with a bow.

Then without another word or even so much as a glance at his daughter,
the Grand Duke turned and hurried back into the palace, leaving Malcolm
very astonished and a little uncomfortable.

The girl saw his embarrassment.

"My father does not seem to be very hospitable," she smiled, and once
more he saw that little gleam of mischief in her eyes, "but I will give
you a warmer invitation."

He spread out his hands in mock dismay and looked down at his untidy
clothes.

"Your Highness is very generous," he said, "but how can I come to the
Grand Duke's table like this?"

"You will not see the Grand Duke," she laughed; "father gives these
invitations but never accepts them himself! He breakfasts in his own
room, so if you can endure me alone----" she challenged.

He said nothing but looked much, and her eyes fell before his. All the
time he was conscious that red-haired Boolba stood stiffly behind him, a
spectator, yet, as Malcolm felt, a participant in this small affair of
the breakfast invitation. She followed Malcolm's look and beckoned the
man forward. He had already surrendered the horses to an orderly.

"Take the lord to a guest-room," she said in Russian, "and send a valet
to attend to him."

"It is ordered," said the man, and with a nod, the girl turned and
walked into the house, followed at a more leisurely pace by Malcolm and
the man with the crooked nose.

Boolba led the way up a broad flight of stairs, carpeted with thick red
pile, along a corridor pierced at intervals with great windows, to
another corridor leading off and through a door which, from its
dimensions, suggested the entrance to a throne-room, into a suite
gorgeously furnished and resplendent with silve