will be limited."

The Frenchman took a hasty step toward him, shrugging off the
hand one of the soldiers had placed on his shoulder.

"Are you the Prince Kalonay, sir?" he demanded. "But surely
not," he added.

"No, I am not the Prince," Gordon answered. "I bid you
good-morning, sir."

"Then you are on the other side," the man called after him
eagerly, with a tone of great relief. "I have been right from
the very first. I see it plainly. It is a double plot, and
you are one of that woman's dupes. Listen to me--I beg of
you, listen to me--I have a story to tell."

Gordon paused and looked back at the man over his shoulder,
doubtfully.

"It's like the Arabian Nights," he said, with a puzzled smile.
"There was once a rich merchant of Bagdad and the Sultan was
going to execute him, but they put off the execution until he
could tell them the story of the Beautiful Countess and the
French Envoy. I am sorry," he added, shaking his head, "but I
cannot listen now. I must not be seen talking to you at all,
and everyone can see us here."

They were as conspicuous figures on the flat surface of the
beach as two palms in a desert, and Gordon was most anxious to