"Very well, dear," she said. "Just as you please. I'm sure you know best."     

       "Sure!" said her brother. "You're a good guesser. I'll go and beat up old man Poineau right away."     

  

  

       CHAPTER III — JOHN     

       Ten days after Mr. Scobell's visit to General Poineau, John, Prince of Mervo, ignorant of the greatness so soon to be thrust upon him, was strolling thoughtfully along one of the main thoroughfares of that outpost of civilization, Jersey City. He was a big young man, tall and large of limb. His shoulders especially were of the massive type expressly designed by nature for driving wide gaps in the opposing line on the gridiron. He looked like one of nature's center-rushes, and had, indeed, played in that position for Harvard during two strenuous seasons. His face wore an expression of invincible good-humor. He had a wide, good-natured mouth, and a pair of friendly gray eyes. One felt that he liked his follow men and would be surprised and pained if they did not like him.     

       As he passed along the street, he looked a little anxious. Sherlock Holmes—and possibly even Doctor Watson—would have deduced that he had something on his conscience.     

       At the entrance to a large office building, he paused, and seemed to hesitate. Then, as if he had made up his mind to face an ordeal, he went in and pressed the button of the elevator.     

       Leaving the elevator at the third floor, he went down the passage, and pushed open a door on which was inscribed the legend, "Westley, Martin       & Co."     

       A stout youth, walking across the office with his hands full of papers, stopped in astonishment.     

       "Hello, John Maude!" he cried.     

       The young man grinned.     

       "Say, where have you been? The old man's been as mad as a hornet since he found you had quit without leave. He was asking for you 

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