“Your servant believed, then, your Highness,” he said clearly, “that in taking Miss Holland’s life she was serving you?”

“I must regretfully conclude so.”

St. George rose, holding the little brazen disc which he had taken from the table, and confronted his host, compelling his eyes.

“Perhaps you will tell us, Prince Tabnit,” he said coolly, “what it is that the people who use this device find against Miss Holland’s father?”

St. George heard Olivia’s little broken cry.

“It is the same!” she exclaimed.  “Aunt Dora—­Mr. Frothingham—­it is the crucified sphinx that was on so many of the things that father sent.  Oh,” she cried to the prince, “can it be possible that you know him—­that you know anything of my father?”

To St. George’s amazement the face of the prince softened and glowed as if with peculiar delight, and he looked at St. George with admiration.

“Is it possible,” he murmured, half to himself, “that your race has already developed intuition?  Are you indeed so near to the Unknown?”

He took quick steps away and back, and turned again to St. George, a strange joy dawning in his face.

“If there be some who are ready to know!” he said.  “Ah,” he recalled himself penitently to Miss Holland, “your father—­Otho Holland, I have seen him many times.”

“Seen Otho!” shrilled Mrs. Hastings, as pink and trembling and expressionless as a disturbed mold of jelly.  “Oh, poor, dear Otho!  Did he live where there are people like your frightful servant?  Olivia, think!  Maybe he is lying at the bottom of a gorge, all wounded and bloody, with a dagger in his back!  Oh, my poor, dear Otho, who used to wheel me about!”

Mrs. Hastings collapsed softly on the divan, her glasses fallen in her lap, her side-combs slipping silently to the rug.  Olivia had risen and was standing before Prince Tabnit.

“Tell me,” she said trembling, “when have you seen him?  Is he well?”

Prince Tabnit swept the faces of the others and his eyes returned to Miss Holland and dropped to the floor.

“The last time that I saw him, Miss Holland,” he answered, “was three months ago.  He was then alive and well.”

Something in his tone chilled St. George and sent a sudden thrill of fear to his heart.

“He was then alive and well?” St. George repeated slowly.  “Will you tell us more, your Highness?  Will you tell us why the death of his daughter should be considered a service to the prince of a country which he had visited?”

“You are very wonderful,” observed the prince, smiling meditatively at St. George, “and your penetration gives me good news—­news that I had not hoped for, yet.  I can not tell you all that you ask, but I can tell you much.  Will you sit down?”

He turned and glanced at the curtain at the far end of the room.  Instantly the boy servant appeared, bearing a tray on which were placed, in dishes of delicate-coloured filigree, strange dainties not to be classified even by a cosmopolitan, with his Flemish and Finnish and all but Icelandic cafes in every block.