The Frances Hodgson Burnett MEGAPACK ®. Frances Hodgson Burnett

keen eyes were still taking The Rat in.

      “They are an advantage,” said the Prince at last.

      Lazarus had nailed together a light, rough easel which Marco used in making his sketches when the game was played. Lazarus was standing in state at the door, and he came forward, brought the easel from its corner, and arranged the necessary drawing materials upon it.

      Marco stood near it and waited the pleasure of his father and his visitor. They were speaking together in low tones and he waited several minutes. What The Rat noticed was what he had noticed before—that the big boy could stand still in perfect ease and silence. It was not necessary for him to say things or to ask questions—to look at people as if he felt restless if they did not speak to or notice him. He did not seem to require notice, and The Rat felt vaguely that, young as he was, this very freedom from any anxiety to be looked at or addressed made him somehow look like a great gentleman.

      Loristan and the Prince advanced to where he stood.

      “L’Hotel de Marigny,” Loristan said.

      Marco began to sketch rapidly. He began the portrait of the handsome woman with the delicate high-bridged nose and the black brows which almost met. As he did it, the Prince drew nearer and watched the work over his shoulder. It did not take very long and, when it was finished, the inspector turned, and after giving Loristan a long and strange look, nodded twice.

      “It is a remarkable thing,” he said. “In that rough sketch she is not to be mistaken.”

      Loristan bent his head.

      Then he mentioned the name of another street in another place—and Marco sketched again. This time it was the peasant with the simple face. The Prince bowed again. Then Loristan gave another name, and after that another and another; and Marco did his work until it was at an end, and Lazarus stood near with a handful of sketches which he had silently taken charge of as each was laid aside.

      “You would know these faces wheresoever you saw them?” said the Prince. “If you passed one in Bond Street or in the Marylebone Road, you would recognize it at once?”

      “As I know yours, sir,” Marco answered.

      Then followed a number of questions. Loristan asked them as he had often asked them before. They were questions as to the height and build of the originals of the pictures, of the color of their hair and eyes, and the order of their complexions. Marco answered them all. He knew all but the names of these people, and it was plainly not necessary that he should know them, as his father had never uttered them.

      After this questioning was at an end the Prince pointed to The Rat who had leaned on his crutches against the wall, his eyes fiercely eager like a ferret’s.

      “And he?” the Prince said. “What can he do?”

      “Let me try,” said The Rat. “Marco knows.”

      Marco looked at his father.

      “May I help him to show you?” he asked.

      “Yes,” Loristan answered, and then, as he turned to the Prince, he said again in his low voice: “He is one of us.”

      Then Marco began a new form of the game. He held up one of the pictured faces before The Rat, and The Rat named at once the city and place connected with it, he detailed the color of eyes and hair, the height, the build, all the personal details as Marco himself had detailed them. To these he added descriptions of the cities, and points concerning the police system, the palaces, the people. His face twisted itself, his eyes burned, his voice shook, but he was amazing in his readiness of reply and his exactness of memory.

      “I can’t draw,” he said at the end. “But I can remember. I didn’t want any one to be bothered with thinking I was trying to learn it. So only Marco knew.”

      This he said to Loristan with appeal in his voice.

      “It was he who invented ‘the game,’” said Loristan. “I showed you his strange maps and plans.”

      “It is a good game,” the Prince answered in the manner of a man extraordinarily interested and impressed. “They know it well. They can be trusted.”

      “No such thing has ever been done before,” Loristan said. “It is as new as it is daring and simple.”

      “Therein lies its safety,” the Prince answered.

      “Perhaps only boyhood,” said Loristan, “could have dared to imagine it.”

      “The Prince thanks you,” he said after a few more words spoken aside to his visitor. “We both thank you. You may go back to your beds.”

      And the boys went.

      XIX

      “THAT IS ONE!”

      A week had not passed before Marco brought to The Rat in their bedroom an envelope containing a number of slips of paper on each of which was written something.

      “This is another part of the game,” he said gravely. “Let us sit down together by the table and study it.”

      They sat down and examined what was written on the slips. At the head of each was the name of one of the places with which Marco had connected a face he had sketched. Below were clear and concise directions as to how it was to be reached and the words to be said when each individual was encountered.

      “This person is to be found at his stall in the market,” was written of the vacant-faced peasant. “You will first attract his attention by asking the price of something. When he is looking at you, touch your left thumb lightly with the forefinger of your right hand. Then utter in a low distinct tone the words ‘The Lamp is lighted.’ That is all you are to do.”

      Sometimes the directions were not quite so simple, but they were all instructions of the same order. The originals of the sketches were to be sought out—always with precaution which should conceal that they were being sought at all, and always in such a manner as would cause an encounter to appear to be mere chance. Then certain words were to be uttered, but always without attracting the attention of any bystander or passer-by.

      The boys worked at their task through the entire day. They concentrated all their powers upon it. They wrote and re-wrote—they repeated to each other what they committed to memory as if it were a lesson. Marco worked with the greater ease and more rapidly, because exercise of this order had been his practice and entertainment from his babyhood. The Rat, however, almost kept pace with him, as he had been born with a phenomenal memory and his eagerness and desire were a fury.

      But throughout the entire day neither of them once referred to what they were doing as anything but “the game.”

      At night, it is true, each found himself lying awake and thinking. It was The Rat who broke the silence from his sofa.

      “It is what the messengers of the Secret Party would be ordered to do when they were sent out to give the Sign for the Rising,” he said. “I made that up the first day I invented the party, didn’t I?”

      “Yes,” answered Marco.

      After a third day’s concentration they knew by heart everything given to them to learn. That night Loristan put them through an examination.

      “Can you write these things?” he asked, after each had repeated them and emerged safely from all cross-questioning.

      Each boy wrote them correctly from memory.

      “Write yours in French—in German—in Russian—in Samavian,” Loristan said to Marco.

      “All you have told me to do and to learn is part of myself, Father,” Marco said in the end. “It is part of me, as if it were my hand or my eyes—or my heart.”

      “I believe that is true,” answered Loristan.

      He was pale that night and there was a shadow on his face. His eyes held a great longing as they rested on Marco. It was a yearning which had a sort of dread in