"May I inquire what you propose to do?" asked Collins, flushing a little.
"I propose to cultivate the acquaintance of the beautiful Americans in every way I can. After all, what does it matter to me who rules over a little twopenny duchy called Schloshold-Markheim?"
"I suppose your promise is of equal indifference to you!"
"Damn my promise! See here, Collins; don't push me too far; the worm will turn. Of course, I'll keep my promise; but don't irritate me. I'm all on edge over this thing now—a little more, and I'll be capable of doing something—"
A tap at the door interrupted him, and he disappeared between two curtains into the inner room, where an invalid chair, buried in wraps, stood by the window. Near it was a little table covered with medicine bottles, glasses, spoons—in a word, all the paraphernalia of prolonged and serious illness.
Blake opened the door and took the card that was presented to him.
"The Prince of Markeld," he said, looking at it. "Ah, yes; you will tell His Highness that there has been no change in the condition of Lord Vernon, who thanks him for his kind inquiries."
He closed the door and turned back into the room.
"Now, what do you think that means?" he asked, of Collins. "That's the second time today. He's getting importunate."
Collins stared out of the window gloomily.