" He fell silent, plucking at his beard. "I fancy," he said
at last, "that you will not go back to the music-machine."
"It was--and is--my only means of following her."
"Do so again," said the Baron dryly, "and the American yellow papers
shall blazon your identity to the world. 'Son of a prince
regent--nephew of a king--trundles a music-machine about to win a
beautiful gypsy!' And Galituria and the Princess Phaedra will read
with interest." Then he blazed suddenly with one of his infrequent
outbursts of passion, "Is it not enough to have Galituria laughing at a
mad king whose claim to the throne by our laws may not be invalidated
by his madness? A king so mad that the affairs of a nation must be
administered by a prince regent--your father? Must you add to all this
the disgrace of breaking faith with Galituria and plunging your country
into war? Your father is an old man. With but his life and the life
of an aging madman between you and the throne, it behooves you to walk
with a full recognition of your future responsibilities. Your father
knows you are here in America?"
"No. There was an Arctic expedition. He thinks I have gone hunting
with that. At first I thought I could come to America and return with
no one the wiser.
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