"My dear old fellow, how well you are looking!" said Max, as he drew off his gloves and brushed some dust from his coat sleeve. He had just arrived from Yorkshire, and had arranged to spend a portion of his leave in town before going down to Hampshire to visit our respected parents.

"I am wonderfully fit," I answered. "How are you?"

"Only pretty well," he replied, and I noticed as he spoke that his face looked older and more careworn than when I had last seen him. What was more, his manner seemed to have lost much of its old vivacity. The change startled me more than I can say, and my fears were far from being allayed when, half an hour later, he communicated to me the direful intelligence that he had determined to resign his commission in the army.

"I cannot get on with it," he said. "I do not take the least interest in it; and, if the truth must be told, I am far better out of it. I am only sorry that they ever permitted me to take it up."

"My dear old fellow," I answered, "this is the worst news that I have heard for a long time. You surely cannot be serious?"

"I could not be more serious if my life depended upon it," he returned. "Don't imagine that I have acted hastily and without thought. I have given the matter the fullest possible consideration, and the step I am about to take is the result. It will hurt our mother terribly, I fear, but it cannot be helped."

"And what do you intend to do when you have left the army?" I asked, more for the sake of saying something and having time to collect my thoughts, than for any other reason.

"I don't know," he replied gloomily. "Upon my word, I do not. The truth of the matter is, Paul, old man, I'm a failure, an abject failure. I have guessed it for years, and now I am certain of it."

He looked so sad, that I crossed the room and took his hand. "You musn't say that," I began. "You know how proud we all are of you, and how our hopes are centred on you."

Then, with what was for me unusual earnestness, I continued, "Think of Pannonia! This wretched fiasco of a republic cannot endure much longer, and then our father will abdicate in your favour, and you will be king. Isn't that something to look forward to and to work for?"

He shook his head.

"If it were likely to happen, it might be," he answered. "But I know better. I am as certain, Paul, old boy, that I shall never sit upon the throne of Pannonia, as I am that I am standing before you now. I don't know why I should be so sure of it, but I am quite convinced that it is the case."

"It seems to me," I said in a fit of temper, "that the best thing you could do would be to consult a Harley Street physician. You are not yourself; you have run down and want a fillip."

He shook his head once more.

"It would take more than a Harley Street tonic to set me up," he replied. "But there, do not let us talk of my own wretched affairs. Tell me of yourself—what you have been doing, and how you like soldiering?"

I satisfied him upon these points, and then went on to tell him of my meeting with the Princess Ottilie. Though it was a difficult thing to do, I spoke of her with apparent unconcern. I had no wish that he should read my secret, not yet at any rate. He was extremely interested, and expressed a desire to be presented to her himself. Only too glad to agree to anything that would take him out of himself, I proposed that we should ask permission to call upon her. He assented, and I accordingly sat down to write a note to her, inquiring whether she would be at home that afternoon, and if so, if she would permit me to call and present my brother to her? This note I despatched, and when Max had made some changes in his attire, we went out and lunched together at the club. On our return, two hours later, my servant handed me a note. The handwriting was small, and in some respects un-English.

"The Princess will be very pleased to see us at four o'clock this afternoon, if we will call," I said in explanation.

Returning the note to its envelope, I placed it carefully in my pocket. The faint perfume of the paper seemed to linger in the room and to endow it with a sweetness it had not possessed before. With what eagerness I looked forward to that call! It seemed as if the laggard hours would never pass. At last, however, the time arrived, and Felix entered the room to inform us that the cab was at the door. Soon we turned into Curzon Street, and drew up before the door of the Prince of LilienhÖhe's residence. On entering, we were conducted to the drawing-room, where the Princess and the Baroness Roqsal, her chaperone, were awaiting our coming.

"Princess," I began, as I crossed the room and took her hand, "will you permit me the pleasure of presenting my brother to you?"

"It is very kind of you to bring him," she answered. Then, turning to Max, she continued: "I am delighted to see you. It is many years since we last met, but I remember you perfectly."

As he answered her, I glanced at his face and noticed the expression of admiration upon it.

"Do you know I am almost afraid of you," she said, when he had been presented to the Baroness, and we had seated ourselves.

"I am sorry to hear that," he replied. "I was not aware that I was such a dreadful personage. What have I done that you should fear me?"

"You have done nothing," she answered. "If anyone is to blame it is your brother. He has been singing your praises to an extent that has made me deem you almost superhuman."

"It seems almost a pity that I should shatter such a beautiful illusion, does it not?" he asked. "However, now that you know me, I fear its destruction is inevitable."

"I must ask for grace before I reply to that speech," she said with a smile. "I have scarcely had time to form my own opinion of your character yet."

At that moment afternoon tea made its appearance, and with it the conversation branched off into other channels. We touched upon Pannonian politics guardedly, spoke of our childish recollections of the country somewhat more freely, and then, with positive relief, of the many friends with whom we were mutually acquainted. At last we rose to take leave.

"Will you let me say au revoir, not adieu, Princess?" inquired Max, as he took her hand. "I hope I may be permitted to see more of you during the time I am in town."

"I shall be very happy to see your Highness," she replied. "Will you remember that I am always at home to my friends on Thursday afternoons?"

When I bade her good-bye, I could have staked my word that her hand trembled.

"Good-bye," I said simply.

"Good-bye," she answered with corresponding brevity, and, as I looked into her face, I saw what I felt sure were tears rising in her eyes.

"What could it mean?" I asked myself, as we made our way downstairs. As far as I could see, nothing had occurred to cause her so much emotion.

That evening Max was my guest at mess, and afterwards we went on to two or three houses together, at none of which were we fortunate enough to meet the Princess. Next morning, however, we encountered her in the Row, and in the evening at a succession of dances. From that time forward, during the remainder of Max's stay in town, we seemed to be continually in her company. That Max had followed my example, and was by this time as madly in love with the Princess as I was myself, I am quite convinced. Never by word or deed, however, did he try to make me aware of the fact. But I could see that it existed. Of my own feelings I am not going to say anything. All things considered, it is better I should not. Those who have the wit to understand will be able to read between the lines.

It was during Max's stay in town that he completed the formalities connected with his decision to resign his commission in the Lancers.

At this juncture it is necessary that I should depart from the direct course of my narrative, in order to offer a few remarks upon Max's own personal condition during the few weeks he was with me in town. This, I must frankly confess, was at times of such a nature as to cause me the greatest possible alarm. He was as changeable as the summer breezes. At one moment he seemed all happiness; the next he was plunged into the depths of despair. At one time he would talk of Pannonia with the greatest affection, and appear to be sanguine as to his chance of some day ascending the throne; the next he would assure me that the Republic would last longer than we expected, and that, even if it did not, he would never live to be king. Extravagant though it may seem to say so, I feel bound to confess that there were occasions when I wondered whether the troubles of our unhappy House had not exercised an undue influence upon his mind. As may be supposed, my position at this particular time was far from being a happy one. To make it worse, the Princess had, for some reason or other, taken it into her head to be vexed with me. What I had done to offend her I could not see, but that she was angry with me was quite clear. It may possibly have been that she thought I was growing tired of the acquaintanceship, inasmuch as I was not quite so often with her. But I was resolved that, happen what might, Max should have a fair chance. He was the elder, and, if he were going to be king, their marriage would be only fit and proper. Therefore, if she preferred him to myself, he should have her, and I would do my best to appear delighted. If not, well, then it would be my turn to put my fortune to the test. It took some time to arrive at this decision, but that once done, the rest was easy. Oh, that dreadful time! It has often struck me as extraordinary that Max and I should have managed to come through it as satisfactorily as we did. Surely he must have guessed something of what was in my mind. But it is quite certain that, if he did, he never for one moment allowed me to suspect it. We met continually, discussed the various topics of the day with well-simulated interest, occupied ourselves with our round of amusements, as if the wolves were not all the time gnawing at our heartstrings, and to each other and the world in general were as friendly as two brothers could hope to be. Meanwhile, we both knew that every day was bringing us nearer the inevitable end.

To be precise, it was on Monday, the fourteenth day of July, that the climax came. Max had left me soon after lunch to ride in the Park with the Princess Ottilie. I was on duty that afternoon, so was unable, even had I desired to do so, to accompany them. Indeed, it was after six o'clock before I returned to my house, where I expected to find Max awaiting me. To my surprise, however, he was not there.

"Has not the Crown Prince returned?" I inquired of Felix, my imperturbable groom of the chambers.

"His Royal Highness left the house nearly an hour and a half ago," the man replied. "I thought your Highness was aware of his intention to leave London."

"To leave London!" I cried in astonishment. "What do you mean? What reason have you for supposing that he has left London?"

I was certain that he had not the least intention of doing so when we had lunched together.

"His Royal Highness gave me to understand that he intended paying a visit to their Majesties in the country," the man replied apologetically.

This sudden and entirely unexpected action on Max's part was inexplicable to me. Could he have proposed to the Princess, and had she refused him? I was still turning this problem over in my mind, when a letter, balanced against the inkstand on my writing table, attracted my attention. It was addressed to myself, and the handwriting was quite familiar to me. To pick it up and open it was the work of a moment.

My dear Paul (it ran)—

At last, thank Heaven, I have been able to come to a decision with myself. After years of doubt and darkness I can see light ahead. God knows whether I am doing right or wrong, but my belief is that it is my duty. I want you to be the first to hear it, and then to act as may seem best to you. Do you think, my brother, that your secret is unknown to me? Have you flattered yourself that I am not aware that you love Ottilie of LilienhÖhe as truly as I do myself? If so, you are wrong. I knew it from the first moment that you spoke of her to me. It was written on your face as plain as any words. At that time I had not seen her, and, in consequence, I was as careless of the future as I was of the present. From the fatal moment, however, that we crossed the threshold of the Prince's house in Curzon Street, I realised that I was destined by fate to be your rival. (Here followed a tribute to my own behaviour in the affair, which, with your permission, I will pass over.) ... I saw her and loved her from the moment that I looked into her eyes. At first I resolved that nothing should induce me to play you false; but I did not know then the strength of my love, or the violence of the temptation to which I was to be subjected. I give you my word, Paul, that for the first fortnight I wrestled with myself and my love with all the strength of a man, who was despairing, and who wished to be honourable. But it proved too powerful for me in the end, and at last I was obliged to succumb. The devil was at my elbow whispering continually that it was not myself alone that I had to think of, but of my country. To marry the daughter of the Prince of LilienhÖhe would be to unite the two strongest factions in Pannonia, to bring peace and happiness to it as a nation, and to lift it again, from its place in the mire, to its former proud position among the great peoples of the earth. I can only wonder how it was that you did not see my misery. That it was misery for me I can only ask you to believe. The uncertainty was heart-breaking. One day I felt sure that she loved me, and, in consequence, I walked in an earthly paradise; the next I was certain that she did not, and then I tasted all the bitterness of hell. Meanwhile, my conscience was calling upon me to be as loyal to you as you had been to me. But it was of no avail. The temptation was more than I could withstand; at last I fell. My punishment, however, was not long in coming. This afternoon, as you know, I arranged to ride with the Princess in the Row. I met her near Hyde Park Corner, and I assure you, that I, who have never since our escape from Pannonia known the meaning of the word "fear," felt a tremor run through me as she rode towards me. But I soon discovered that I was not alone in my fear. The moment I saw her face I knew that she also was dreading our meeting. That was sufficient to tell me my fate. Failure had dogged me all my life, and it was scarcely likely that, when I desired something that was more to me than life itself, she would grant it to me. Having exchanged greetings with an appearance of pleasure on either side, we turned our horses' heads and made our way down the Row together. With a make-believe of composure, we discussed the trivialities of the day. This, however, did not last long. We began sentences and did not finish them, and at last lapsed altogether into silence. I stole a glance at her face, and, as I did so, enlightenment came to me. Her secret was a secret no longer. I knew, not only that she did not love me, but that her love was given elsewhere. I would have had pity on her, and have left my question unasked, but that the devil was still behind me, whispering in my ear, "Why do you trouble yourself about her feelings? What does it matter to you whether she loves anyone else or not? There are reasons of State why she should be your wife, and you have only to put them before her, backed up by her father's authority, and she must surrender." However, I had not fallen so low as that yet. I had still sufficient of the gentleman left to declare to myself that, if she did not love me, and the union was distasteful to her, I would not force it upon her. When we turned our horses, I brought mine a little closer to hers.

"Princess," I said, "will you take pity on me, and give me a plain answer to a question I want to ask you?"

Her face was bloodless in its pallor. She tried to answer, but no word escaped her lips. My God! man, you can't conceive what a brute I felt at that moment. And yet I was well aware that I must go on, that I should know no peace until I had tortured her to the end. All this time she was striving to be brave. Fortunately, there were few people about in that particular part of the Row, otherwise her agitation could scarcely have failed to attract attention.

"What is the question your Highness desires to ask me?" she faltered.

"Surely you can guess," I answered. "Ottilie, I love you, and I want you to tell me whether in return you can love me well enough to be my wife."

Though she must have known what was coming, a little cry escaped her.

"What can I say? What can I say?" she repeated in a choking voice. "Can you not see that I am prepared to do my duty at any cost to myself?"

"But you shall not do it at the expense of your heart," I answered. "Ottilie, do you love me?"

"Oh, why do you ask me?" she cried, with a catch of her breath that was almost hysterical. "How can I answer as you wish?"

"You have given me my answer," I returned. "It seems I have lived in a fool's paradise. But I have loved you, and, as God is my witness, I will not force you into a loveless marriage."

What I said to her after that can have no interest for anyone save our own two selves; let it suffice that, when I left her, I came on here. Strangely enough, I had no sooner quitted the Park than my composure returned to me, and by the time I had reached this room, I could stand off and look at everything in its proper light. And now one other matter, and the last. I know what you have thought of me these last few weeks, and the suspicions you have entertained—well, I might also say, concerning my sanity. But you are in error, my dear brother. No man was ever saner than I am at this moment. The result of it all is, as I said at the commencement of my letter, that I have arrived at a decision. I have come to an understanding with myself. By the time you open this letter I shall have left London, never, I hope, to return to it. As far as I am concerned, the farce of kingship is played out. I, for one, have been wearied to death by the performance. With this letter I cast it off. To-night I enter upon a new life, in which, please God, I shall comport myself more like a man than I have done hitherto. I have chosen a name which will not furnish any clue as to my identity, so that it will be impossible for you to trace me. Under it, as under a new banner, I shall fight and endeavour to win that self-respect which up to now I have never been able to attain. Look upon me as one who is dead, and try, if you can, to forgive me for the pain I have caused you these few weeks past. Remember always that, even though I gave way, I did not fall altogether. Try also to understand that my victory over myself was, in a great measure, a proof of my love for you. God bless you always. Think sometimes of

Your ever affectionate brother,

Max.

In a postscript there were a few directions as to what should be done with his valet, Theodore, and the manner in which his horses and other belongings should be disposed of.

For some moments after I had read it, I stood holding the letter in my hand, staring at it in blank amazement. I read it again and again, trying, in vain, to arrive at a proper understanding of it. Of one thing there could be no doubt. He had proposed to the Princess, and she had told him that she did not love him. He had accordingly determined to relinquish his position in society and to go abroad, rather than allow her to be forced into a marriage with a man she did not love. Was ever a man more noble? At the same time it occurred to me that he had often stated that nothing would give him greater pleasure than to endeavour to win a position for himself in a new country, where nobody knew him, and his rank could be of no assistance to his efforts. This was what he was going to do now. But it was impossible we could permit it. At any hazard I felt that I must find him, and argue it out with him, before he could leave England. For my father's and mother's, for his own, for mine, and for Pannonia's sakes, he must be prevented from committing this rash act. At that moment Felix entered the room once more.

"I have made inquiries," he began, "but Theodore declares he knows nothing of his master's movements. He was told to wait here until he received his instructions from your Highness."

"Tell him that I will see him later," I answered. "In the meantime give me my hat and call a hansom. I am going out."

A cab having been obtained, I bade the man drive me to the nearest telegraph office. Once there I wired to my father to know if he had seen anything of Max, and implored him, should he put in an appearance, to keep him until I arrived. Then I drove to Scotland Yard, where I sent in my card to the Chief Officer of the Detective Department. To him, in confidence, I imparted my fears, and told him that, if possible, I wanted my brother's whereabouts ascertained before it would be possible for him to leave England, convincing him, at the same time, of the necessity that existed for secrecy. This precaution he promised most religiously to observe. After that, I returned to my own abode to await the telegram from my father. At last it came. It was worded as follows: "Max left here more than an hour ago, having said good-bye to us prior to leaving for the Continent." I immediately sat down and scribbled a note to Scotland Yard, informing them of the discovery I had made. Then, when I had written another to my hostess of that evening, asking her to excuse me not being present at her dinner, on account of urgent private trouble, I took a hansom and drove to Waterloo. Instantly on my arrival at home I gave my father and mother a full account of all that had occurred. They, like myself, were overwhelmed by the suddenness of the catastrophe, and could give me no further information than that Max, after bidding them good-bye, had driven to Eastleigh, in order to catch, so they supposed, a train either for London or Southampton. I inquired at the station, but in vain. The station-master had not seen him, nor could he tell by what train he would have been likely to have travelled.

"There was the 6.50 up to town, your Royal Highness," he said, "and the 6.45 down to Southampton. He might have taken either."

Feeling sure that he would have not returned to London, I took the next train to Southampton and made inquiries there. But my efforts were in vain. No one seemed to have seen a person answering to his description. When next morning I called at the various shipping offices I was equally unsuccessful. Almost despairing, I applied for leave and remained at Southampton, day by day, for a week, watching the various boats that left for America and South Africa. So far as I could discover, however, Max was not on board any one of them. At last, wearied with waiting, and hopeless of hearing anything of him, I returned to town, calling en route at Rendlehurst to inform my father and mother of my ill-success.

From that moment, for many years, nothing was heard of poor ill-fated Max of Pannonia.