“There is one thing more,” the Prince continued, dropping his voice, as if, even at that distance, he feared the man of whom he spoke. “I shall not inform the Count von Hern of our conversation. It is not necessary, and, between ourselves, the Count is jealous. He sends me message after message that I remain in my stateroom, that I seek no interview with Sirdeller, that I watch only. He is too much of the spy—the Count von Hern. He does not understand that code of honor, relying upon which I open my heart to you.”
“You have done your cause no harm,” Sogrange assured him, with subtle sarcasm. “We come now to the Duchesse.”
The Prince leaned towards him. It was just at this moment that a steward entered with a marconigram, which he presented to the Prince. The latter tore it open, glanced it through, and gave vent to a little exclamation. The fingers which held the missive trembled. His eyes blazed with excitement. He was absolutely unable to control his feelings.
“My two friends,” he cried, in a tone broken with emotion, “it is you first who shall hear the news! This message has just arrived. Sirdeller will have received its duplicate. The final report of the works in Havana Harbor will await us on our arrival in New York, but the substance of it is this. The Maine was sunk by a torpedo, discharged at close quarters underneath her magazine. Gentlemen, the House of Brangaza is ruined!”
There was a breathless silence.
“Your information is genuine?” Sogrange asked, softly.
“Without a doubt,” the Prince replied. “I have been expecting this message. I shall cable to Von Hern. We are still in communication. He may not have heard.”
“We were about to speak of the Duchesse,” Peter reminded him.
The Prince shook his head.
“Another time,” he declared. “Another time.”