“I!” cried Olivia.

Mrs. Hastings, brows lifted, lips parted, winked with lightning rapidity in an effort to understand.

St. George pulled himself together.

“Your Highness,” he said sternly, “there are several things upon which I must ask you to enlighten us.  And the first, which I hope you will forgive, is whether you have any direct proof that what you tell us of Miss Holland’s father is true.”

“That’s it!  That’s it!” Mr. Frothingham joined him 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  It is true that writing has with us been superseded by wireless communication, excepting where there is need of great secrecy.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.”