“What am I going to do with you?” The prince seemed more out of temper now.  “My crew are all Russians and I don’t want any of your—­” He stopped; shifting lights played ominously in his gaze; a few dissatisfied lines on his face deepened.  “I didn’t ask you to come aboard,” he ended with an angry gesture.

“Sorry to intrude!” Mr. Heatherbloom spoke at random.  “But I really couldn’t help it, don’t you know.  No time to ask permission.”

His excellency frowned.  Did he suspect in these words an attempt at that insidious American humor he had often vainly endeavored to fathom?  Mr. Heatherbloom gazed at him now with seemingly innocent but really very attentive eyes.

A superb specimen of over six feet of masculinity, the prince was picturesquely attired in Russian yachting-garb while a Cossack cap adorned a visage as bold and romantic as any young woman might wish to gaze upon.  And gazing upon it himself—­that rather stunning picture the prince presented on his own yacht—­a sudden chill ran through Mr. Heatherbloom.  This titled paragon refused by Miss Dalrymple?  A feudal lord who made your dapper French counts and Hungarian barons appear but small fry indeed, by contrast!  The light of the sea seemed suddenly to dazzle Mr. Heatherbloom.  A wild thought surged through his brain.  Betty Dalrymple, bewildering, confusing, made up of captivating inconsistencies, had sometimes been accused by people of a capacity for doing the wildest things.  Had she for excitement—­or any other reason—­eloped with the prince?  Were they, perhaps, married even now?  He dismissed the thought quickly.  All the circumstances pointed against this theory; his original one was—­must be—­correct.

“Well, now you are here, I suppose I’ve got to keep you.”  The prince had again spoken.

“I suppose so,” said Mr. Heatherbloom absently.  He was studying now the near-by cabin windows.  One, with beautiful lace and glimpses of pink beyond, caught his glance.

“What can you do?” Sharply.

“Oh, a lot of things!” Had the curtain waved?  His heart thumped hard—­he scarcely saw the prince now.

“Not manage a sail-boat, I’m convinced.”  He forced himself to turn again, as through a mist was aware of his excellency’s sneering countenance.  “Judging from your recent performance!”

“That was hardly a fair test,” Mr. Heatherbloom replied anyhow.  His thoughts were keyed to a straining-point; his glance would swerve; he strove his best to control it.  She was there—­there—­Shrouds and stays seemed to sing the words.  He would have sworn he caught the flash of a white wrist.

“Why not?” Was the prince still examining, questioning him?  Again a primal impulse was suppressed, though his muscles were like whipcords.  He yet compelled himself to endure the ordeal.  What was the query about?  Ah, he remembered.

“Well, you see, I must have lost my head.”  It was not a bright answer but he did not care; it was the best that occurred.