Quentin with difficulty restrained from openly accusing the prince of duplicity. Afterthought told him how impotent his accusation would have been, for how could he prove that the Russian was acting as an agent?
Just before daylight Turk saw them take Prince Kapolski from the hotel in an ambulance, and, considering it his duty, promptly followed in a cab. The destination of the ambulance was the side street entrance to one of the big hospitals in the upper part of the town, and the men who accompanied the prince were strangers to the little observer. Prince Ugo was not of the party, nor were Laselli and Sallaconi. On his return to the Bellevue he had a fresh task on his hands. He was obliged to carry a man from Quentin's apartments and put him to bed in the millionaire's room, farther down the hall. The millionaire—for it was he—slept all day and had a headache until the thirtieth of the month. Turk put him to bed on the twenty-seventh.
During the forenoon Prince Ugo and Count Sallaconi called at Quentin's rooms. They found that gentleman and Mr. Savage dressed and ready for the street.
“Good morning,” said Dickey, pleasantly, for the two Americans had determined to suppress, for diplomatic reasons, any show of hostility toward the Italians. The visitors may not have exposed their true feelings, but they were very much astounded and not a little shocked to find the duelist and his friend in the best of spirits.
“And how did you sleep?” asked Ugo, after he had expressed his sorrow over the little unpleasantry of the night before, deploring the tragic ending to the night of pleasure.
“Like a top,” lied Dickey, cheerfully.
“I was afraid the excitement might have caused you great uneasiness and—ah—dread,” said the prince. The count was industriously engaged in piercing with his glittering eyes the tapestry in a far corner of the room. Mr. Savage possessed the manner of a man who shoots someone every morning before breakfast.
“Not in the least; did it, Quentin?”
“He slept like a baby.”
“By the way, before I forget it, Prince Ugo, how is the gentleman I shot last night—ah, what was his name?” asked Dickey, slapping his leg carelessly with his walking stick.