That evening Mr. and Mrs. Robert Saunders were George Trafford's guests in a private room of the Hôtel Concordia. In the centre of the dining table stood a big silver trophy of considerable value and questionable design. As soon as the soup had been served, Trafford solemnly poured out the contents of a champagne bottle into its capacious depths. He then handed it to Mrs. Saunders.
"Felicitations," she said, taking the trophy in both hands, "I drink to St. Liedwi, the patron saint of skaters, coupled with the name of George Trafford, winner of the King's Cup."
Saunders was the next to take the prize in his hands.
"I drink a health unto their Majesties, King Edward of England and King Karl of Grimland, and to the President of the United States," he said; and then bowing to his host, "Also to another good sportsman, one Nervy Trafford. God bless 'em all!"
Trafford received the cup from Saunders, his lips muttered something inaudible, and tossing back his head he drank deep.
"What was your toast, Mr. Trafford?" demanded Mrs. Saunders quietly.
The winner of the cup shook his head sagely.
"That is a secret," he replied.
"A secret! But I insist upon knowing," returned the lady. "Tell me, what was your toast?"
Trafford hesitated a moment.