“I suppose he has to knock the packing-cases together and pay for the ices.”
But the baron had pressed forward to meet Captain Grayrigg and did not answer. Presently he came back very officiously and beckoned to Monkley, whom he introduced.
“From New York City, Colonel,” said Monkley, with a quick glance at the baron.
Sylvia nearly laughed, because Jimmy was talking through his nose in the most extraordinary way.
“Ah! an American,” said Captain Grayrigg. “Then I expect this sort of thing strikes you as quite ridiculous.”
“Why, no, Colonel. Between ourselves I may as well tell you I’m over here myself on a job not unconnected with royalty.”
Monkley indicated Sylvia with a significant look.
“This little French boy who is called Master Sylvestre at present may be heard of later.”
Jimmy had accentuated her nationality. Sylvia, quick enough to see what he wanted her to do, replied in French.
A tall young man with an olive complexion and priestly gestures, standing close by, pricked up his ears at Monkley’s remark. When Captain Grayrigg had retired he came forward and introduced himself as the Prince de Condé.