“One needs to be long-suffering to cope with one’s friends,” Susan remarked, when an hour later she found herself seated side by side with Grant on a bench at the tennis courts. “Last night you showed marked attentions to a danseuse; this morning you have been flirting disgracefully with that beautiful princess, thereby reducing poor Arthur to despair, and now you propose to devote a few minutes to me for the first time to-day. I am beginning to fear, Mr. Grant Slattery, that you are going to be a disappointment to me.”

“Not at tennis, anyhow,” he assured her. “You and I are going to wipe the ground with the Lancasters.”

“Our thoughts are on different planes,” she declared. “I speak of life and you of tennis. I think we shall beat them, if you stand up to the net and don’t poach.”

“How’s your father to-day?” he asked a little abruptly.

“Quite all right, considering. It must have been a terrible shock to him to see that poor old man collapse with scarcely a moment’s warning.”

“Naga was a great statesman,” Grant remarked. “One of the last of the old school. Come on, it’s our court.”

On the way across, an acquaintance hailed Grant. By his side stood Count Itash—sometimes called Sammy.

“Slattery, Count Itash says that he has only an informal acquaintance with you and would like an introduction,” the former said. “Count Itash—Mr. Grant Slattery.”

Grant held out his hand. The other, after a little bow, accepted it. He was an insignificant-looking person amongst the athletic young men by whom he was surrounded, but his eyes, behind his horn-rimmed spectacles, were exceptionally hard and piercing.

“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Slattery,” he said. “Could you, before you leave the courts, spare me a minute or two?”

“With pleasure,” Grant assented. “We are going to play the best of three sets here. I’ll look for you afterwards.”

“You are very kind, sir.”

“Who’s your little friend. Grant?” young Lancaster enquired curiously. “He’s the fellow we saw at the Carlton last night, isn’t he?”

“That’s the chap,” Grant replied. “He rejoices in the name of Itash. I believe I have heard that he is attached to the Japanese Embassy in Berlin and is doing secretarial work for their section here. Queer-looking card, isn’t he?”

“I couldn’t make out where I’d seen him before,” Lancaster observed, “I remember now; I used to see him driving about with Baron Naga. Dismal-looking beggar, isn’t he?”

“I expect the poor young man is upset about his Chief,” Susan remarked. “What did he want. Grant?”

“Wanted to speak to me,” was the indifferent reply. “He’s going to wait until after we’ve finished our three sets.”

“You’re going to get some part of what’s coming to you,” Susan laughed. “You took his dancing companion away last night and you spoiled Arthur’s luncheon to-day. Why don’t you get a girl of your own?”

“I try,” Grant confessed humbly. “I’m afraid I’m not popular with the sex.”

“That’s your fault,” Susan insisted. “A nicely brought-up girl always likes a well-behaved man. Now get up to the net and remember we’ve money on this set. Serve!”

The tennis courts presented a gay scene as the afternoon wore on. There was the usual crowd of English and French people, the women nearly all in white, the men, especially the foreigners, showing a little more variety in their costumes. The sun was shining and every one seemed inspired by the soft exhilaration of the air, the beauty of the glittering blue sea below, and the mountains behind. There was a crowd too of more elaborately dressed spectators, a fluttering of many-coloured parasols, and all the time the cheerful hum of light-hearted conversation in many tongues. With characteristic patience, Count Itash—sometimes called Sammy—sat on his solitary bench and waited—a solemn, almost ghoul-like figure, on the outskirts of the gaiety. At the conclusion of their sets. Grant, after he had received the congratulations of his partner, went over and seated himself by his side.

“What do you wish to say to me, Count Itash?” he enquired.

“I offer apologies, but I am in some trouble,” the young man explained earnestly. “It concerns the lady with whom you talked last night.”

“Mademoiselle Cleo?”

“The young lady who is so called,” Itash assented. “She has been my companion for some time here in Monte Carlo. I will now be very truthful. I have taken a fancy to another girl. Such things happen.”

“Quite so,” Grant agreed. “But I can’t exactly see how this concerns me.”

“It is in this way. Cleo is very, very angry. She knows that I am in the Diplomatic Service,—that I am, in fact, occupying a very confidential and important position down here. She makes a pretence of having obtained possession of secret information concerning the affairs over which I watch, and she threatens to make use of it.”

“Well?”

“But I have never confided in her, not one word,” the young man declared. “We Japanese are not like that. We do not talk. We carry our secrets in our brain.”

“Then if you have told her nothing, what are you afraid of?” Grant asked.

“I have told her nothing,” Itash repeated vehemently, “nor can I think ............