"Describe him to me," said Hillars, trying to roll a cigarette with his trembling fingers. "Curse it!" throwing away the rice paper, "I've got so bad that I can't roll a cigarette. Well, what's he look like?"
"He's in civilian dress; little black mustache and an imperial."
"Look anything like Napoleon III?"
"You've hit it. Who is he?"
"They say he's Prince Ernst of Wortumborg," said Hillars; "but it is my opinion that he's the devil on a furlough."
"Then he is the man—" I began.
"He is. Your love affair is all over once he gets here; unless—" Dan looked at the sky as though he was undecided about the weather.
"Unless what?" I asked.
"O, just unless," said he. "I'd give 5 pounds for a glass of home-made whiskey."
"You've got a plan of some sort," said I. "Speak it out."