“You are very kind, Prince,” Brott remarked, looking uneasily over his shoulder. “But—”
“It is concerning Brand. There is no man more despised and disliked abroad, not only because he is a Jew and ill-bred, but because of his known sympathy with some of these anarchists who are perfect firebrands in Europe.”
“I am exceedingly obliged to you,” Brott answered hurriedly. “I am afraid, however, that you anticipate matters a good deal. I have not yet been asked to form a Cabinet. It is doubtful whether I ever shall. And, beyond that, it is also doubtful whether even if I am asked I shall accept.”
“I must confess,” the Prince said, “that you puzzle me. Every one says that the Premiership of the country is within your reach. It is surely the Mecca of all politicians.”
“There are complications,” Brott muttered. “You—”
He stopped short and moved towards the door. Lucille, unusually pale and grave, had just issued from the ladies’ ante-room, and joined Lady Carey, who was talking to Mr. Sabin. She touched the latter lightly on the arm.
“Help us to escape,” she said quickly. “I am weary of my task. Can we get away without their seeing us?”
Mr. Sabin offered his arm. They passed along the broad way, and as they were almost the last to leave the place, their carriage was easily found. The Prince and Mr. Brott appeared only in time to see Mr. Sabin turning away, hat in hand, from the curb-stone. Brott’s face darkened.
“Prince,” he said, “who is that man?”
The Prince shrugged his shoulders.