At the table, Quentin sat between an Austrian duke and a German named Von Kragg.  He was but two seats removed from Prince Ugo, while Savage was on the other side of the table, almost opposite Quentin.  On Dickey’s right sat the Duke Laselli, and next to that individual was the American millionaire.  Directly across the broad table from Quentin was the tall rakish-looking Count Diego Sallaconi.

“Ob, nobde gap sansan wobble wibble raggle dully pang rubby dub, bob,” said the baron, in his best French, addressing the statuesque American with the broad shoulders and the intense countenance.

“With all my heart,” responded Mr. Quentin, with rare composure and equal confidence.  He had no more conception of what the baron intended to say than he would have had if the planet Mars had wigwagged a signal to him, but he was polite enough to do anything for the sake of conversation.  The baron smiled gladly, even approvingly; it was plain that he understood Phil’s English fully as well as that gentleman understood his French.  Quentin heard his name uttered by Prince Ugo and turned from the baron.

“Mr. Quentin, Prince Kapolski tells me he saw our friends, the Saxondales, in London last week.  They were preparing to go to their place in the country.  You have been there, have you not?” Prince Ugo turned his gleaming eyes and engaging smile upon the man addressed.

“On several occasions,” responded the other.  “Saxondale is a famous hunter and he gave me some rare sport.  When do they leave London?” he asked, indifferently.

’’They were to have started this week,” said the Russian prince, “and there is to be quite a large party, I hear.  A young American who was with them was called away suddenly last week, and, as the trip was arranged for his special amusement—­by the Lady Jane, I was told—­his departure upset the plans a trifle.”  Quentin and Savage, who had heard the remarks glanced at one another in surprise.

“I should enjoy being with them,” said the former, warmly.  “My friend, Mr. Savage, was invited, I think,” he added, and Dickey studiously consulted the salad.  He had not been invited and the announcement that the Saxondales were off for the north of England was news to him.

“Oh, certainly,” exclaimed Ugo; “he was their guest.  And the Lady Jane arranged it, you say, Kapolski?  Draft horses could not have been strong enough to pull me away from London had she planned for my pleasure.  You must discover the fault in him, my dear Quentin, and hold him to account for a very reprehensible act.”  Ugo knew that Dickey was listening, and the first point in a beautiful game was scored.

“Mr. Savage does not care for shooting,” said Phil, flushing slightly.  The Russian prince had been looking at him intently; a peculiar flash came into his eye when Quentin made the defensive remark.

“But there is game to be had without resorting to the gun,” he said, smiling blandly.