Worthington, at the wheel of the big, gold-plated Rolls-Royce sedan, jammed on the brakes and The Three Investigators tumbled into a heap in the rear of the car. The Rolls-Royce screamed to a stop scarcely an inch from the side of a gleaming, low-slung limousine.

Instantly several men swarmed out of the limousine. As Worthington descended from the driver’s seat, they surrounded him, jabbering excitedly in some strange language. Worthington ignored them. He approached the other car and spoke sternly to the chauffeur, resplendent in a red uniform with gold braid.

“My man,” Worthington said, “you ignored a Stop sign. You almost wrecked us both. It was clearly your fault, for I had the right of way.”

“Prince Djaro always has the right of way,” the other chauffeur answered loftily. He pronounced the name Jar-o. “Others must not get in his way.”

By now Pete, Bob and Jupiter had picked themselves up and were looking with amazement at the scene. The men who had popped out of the limousine seemed to be dancing around the tall figure of Worthington in their excitement. One, who was taller than the others and seemed to be in authority, spoke in English.

“Imbecile!” he shouted at Worthington. “You almost killed Prince Djaro! You could have caused an international complication! You should be disciplined.”

“I was obeying the traffic laws and you were not,” Worthington said stoutly. “Your driver is at fault.”

“What’s all this about a prince?” Pete muttered to Bob as they watched.

“Don’t you read the papers?” Bob whispered back. “He’s from Europe — a country called Varania, one of the seven smallest countries in the world. He’s visiting the United States on a sightseeing tour.”

“Golly! And we almost smashed him into a pretzel!” Pete said.

“Worthington was in the right,” Jupiter Jones joined in. “Let’s get out and lend him our moral support.”