Pachmann was furious; but he had no excuse for holding the fellow, nor for examining his baggage. In search of such excuse, he despatched a wireless to the agent of his government at Brussels, directing him to secure at once all the information available about André Chevrial, 18 Rue des Chantiers, Paris; and that evening a very polite gentleman called at the house in question. It was a tall, hideous house, with a cabaret on the first floor. To its proprietor the visitor addressed himself. But yes, the proprietor knew M. Chevrial, a merchant of wine, who had honoured his house for many years by occupying an apartment on the third floor. His present whereabouts? Ah, the proprietor could not say; M. Chevrial made many journeys in the interests of his business; he was absent at the present time. It was the season of his annual trip to America; perhaps he was now on his way thither. He had left no address; but if monsieur wished to write a letter, it would be sent forward as soon as an address was received.
The visitor declined to write a letter, but left his card—or, at least, a card—to be given to M. Chevrial upon his return. Then he took his leave. And the proprietor stuck the card in the frame of the clouded mirror back of the bar, chuckling to himself.
A report of all which Pachmann duly received by radio next day.
The Prince, meanwhile, was finding the voyage wearisome. He was not a difficult person to amuse, and he was very expert in the art of killing time; he had done little else since he emerged from the nursery; but here on shipboard he possessed none of the implements with which he usually carried on that slaughter. He could sit in the smoking-room with a tall stein before him, he could stroll about the deck and stare at the sea, which he did not care for; but there was no one to talk to. His subjects of conversation were limited, and all of them were associated more or less with his princely character; here, where, for the first time in his life, he found himself divested of that princely character, he was completely at a loss. The trouble was that he had no sense of humour. So he found it impossible to gossip with plebeian unknowns, or engage in card-games with irreverent middle-class artisans and drummers. He could not even carry on a flirtation with any of the pretty girls! He had attempted it with one of them; but, after a very few minutes, she had left him with her chin in the air, and an exclamation which sounded singularly like "Beast!" What is gallantry in a Prince, is impertinence or worse in a less-privileged person!
Remember, our Prince was merely a good-natured, thick-headed, young man, who had always been compelled to take himself seriously, whose life had been ordered for him from day to day to its minutest detail; who had never been called upon to use his wits in earnest. There had always been some one to do his thinking for him; there had always been the routine of drill and study to fill a certain portion of every day; and there had always been the fearful delight of escaping from his father's eye and roaming the streets of Berlin in quest of adventure. But here on shipboard, the day was twenty-four empty hours long, and even Pachmann had deserted him, to spend his time asking the passengers interminable questions, whose purpose the Prince could not in the least understand.
So, on this Sunday morning, having attended the services in the dining-saloon for want of something else to do, and kept awake with great difficulty, having smoked innumerable cigarettes, having snubbed an American whose manner was distinctly fresh, having tramped up and down the decks, and looked into the library to find Pachmann still asking questions, questions, the Prince made a sudden daring resolution, walked quickly forward, ascended to the first-class promenade, and looked about for Ignace Vard. With the inventor, at least, he need wear no disguise, and he simply must talk to somebody. Besides, the inventor's talk gave him a good feeling at the heart—the feeling that he might really some day do something worth while! Pachmann would disapprove, of course; but who was Pachmann? A younger son of the inferior nobility! He must remind Pachmann of that, some day, for he seemed to have forgotten it since the Emperor had taken him up!
He found the object of his search leaning against the rail, far forward, staring ahead at the path the ship was taking. Vard greeted him with evident pleasure.
"You have come to arrange for the final conference?" he asked.
The Prince shook his head.