"I know something of your American newspapers, your Majesty," the prince said aloud, "and these men are doing their part excellently, excellently."
"What do you mean, your Highness?" demanded St. George curtly.
"But is it not simple?" asked the prince, still smiling. "You have contrived a sensation for the great American newspaper. No one can doubt."
King Otho leaned back in the beetling throne.
"Ah, yes," he said, "it is true. Something has been contrived. But—is the sensation of his contriving, Prince?"
Olivia stood silent. It was not possible, it was not possible, she said over mechanically. For St. George to have come with this story of a potion—a drug that had restored youth to her father, had transformed him from that mad old Malakh—
"Father!" she cried appealingly, "don't you remember—don't you know?"
King Otho, watching the prince, shook his head, smiling.
"At dawn," he said, "there are few of us to be found remaining still at table with Socrates. I seem not to have been of that number."
"Olivia!" cried St. George suddenly.