"Mr. Chestnut wants to know if you'll come right in to his private office."
Obediently her slim feet moved along the carpet into a high, cool chamber overlooking the harbor and the wide sea.
John Chestnut sat at his desk, waiting, and Rags walked to him and put her arms around his shoulder.
"Are you sure you're real?" she asked anxiously. "Are you absolutely sure?"
"You only wrote me a week before you came," he protested modestly, "or I could have arranged a revolution."
"Was the whole thing just mine?" she demanded. "Was it a perfectly useless, gorgeous thing, just for me?"
"Useless?" He considered. "Well, it started out to be. At the last minute I invited a big restaurant man to be there, and while you were at the other table I sold him the whole idea of the night-club."
He looked at his watch.
"I've got one more thing to do—and then we've got just time to be married before lunch." He picked up his telephone. "Jackson? ... Send a triplicated cable to Paris, Berlin, and Budapest and have those two bogus dukes who tossed up for Schwartzberg-Rhineminster chased over the Polish border. If the Dutchy won't act, lower the rate of exchange to point triple zero naught two. Also, that idiot Blutchdak is in the Balkans again, trying to start a new war. Put him on the first boat for New York or else throw him in a Greek jail."
He rang off, turned to the startled cosmopolite with a laugh.