ERICA went to her wing of The Castle and sat by a window, trying to plan the next move. But her brain was so hot and her thoughts so rambling that she could devise nothing. She rang for her maid. An old woman appeared. “I rang for Ernestine,” said Erica.

“Yes, Your Serene Highness. Ernestine has been taken suddenly ill and sent me in her place. I’m Greta.”

Something in the old woman’s face and manner roused an uneasiness in her. She went to the outer door of her apartment. A stupid-looking soldier was on guard there, marching stiffly to and fro.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I’m on guard,” he answered, in a mountain dialect of German which she could hardly understand.

She started down the corridor.

“Come now, lady, don’t make trouble. I can’t let you pass.” He put his hand on her arm.

“Don’t touch me!” She looked at him haughtily. “I am the Duchess Erica.”

“Yes; I know you think so, lady; that’s your trouble. Now go back quietly—do!”

She returned to her apartment. “Leave me,” she said to the old woman.

Greta retired to the anteroom. “Out of the apartment!” exclaimed Erica. “I do not wish you about.”“Pardon, Your Serene Highness, but His Royal Highness has commanded me not to leave.”

Erica closed the door of her boudoir. She paced the floor. “How helpless I am!” she thought. “I cannot move in any direction!”

Early the next morning Grafton went to a lawyer—Fogel, who is conspicuous in the Zweitenbourg Reichstag as a fierce anti-monarchist. Grafton professed a student’s interest in the laws affecting the royal prerogative. Fogel was most courteous and obliging. He explained in detail, and, when he had ended, Grafton saw that legally his affair was hopeless. The Grand Duke was absolute over the members of his own family and court, except that he could not inflict the death penalty, nor could he detain any one in prison for a longer period than six months without showing cause before the supreme tribunal—on application of a relative of the detained person.

Grafton thanked Fogel and went mournfully back to his hotel. He was expecting every moment a message from the Grand Duke postponing or breaking his engagement, but at half-past ten no message had come. He drove out to The Castle. As he passed the northwest wing he looked up; there stood Erica. He saw her make a gesture as if she were flinging something. It struck the road just ahead of his carriage. He told the driver to stop, descended, picked up a little silver box and with it several small stones. He sent the stones sailing one at a time out over the lake. He put the box in his pocket.With the carriage following him, he walked round The Castle to the galleries and entered. No one was there; he opened the box, drew out a small paper: “I am a prisoner; my uncle knows. My maid, Ernestine Wundsch, lives in Emperor Ferdinand Second Street, No. 643—over the bake-shop. I love you; be careful for my sake. When I escape I shall go to Schaffhausen.”

He thrust the note into his pocket and came out of the alcove into which he had withdrawn to make sure of not being spied upon. Ten minutes passed before the Grand Duke came in. “Pardon my tardiness,” he said, politely. Grafton noted a malicious twinkle in his eyes. “I was arranging the marriage of my son and my niece. The days of romance are not dead. After their little misunderstanding yesterday, they made it up and—how hot young blood is!—they were all for marrying at once. I hadn’t the heart to refuse them. But—to our little affair.”

“I’ve decided not to part with my Rembrandts,” said Grafton. His head was in a whirl. Beneath a fairly composed exterior mad impulses to strangle, to kill, to fight his way to her and bear her off were raging.

“Ah! I regret it. And when do you leave us? That devil, von Moltzahn, is a dangerous fellow. I’m having my police guard you. No; don’t thank me. It’s no trouble, I assure you. You had a pleasant little talk on law with Fogel this morning; he was most enthusiastic over your eagerness to learn; he was talking with one of my secret police about it. I’m sorry you have decided to leave us so soon—to-night, I think you were saying yesterday? And if you change your mind about the Rembrandts, you know I’m always willing to listen to any reasonable terms.”

The Grand Duke bowed him out, but did not offer to shake hands. Grafton entered his carriage and was driven rapidly away, an officer in a plain uniform following him. As soon as Grafton saw it, he drew the silver box from his pocket, took out the note, read it until he had it by heart, then put it in his mouth and swallowed it. He waited until the road wound close to the edge of the lake. He looked back; the officer could not see him. He tossed the little box into the lake.

At the park gates the carriage was halted. The officer came up, several others appeared from the lodge, including one who seemed to be of high rank. They were most polite, most apologetic, but they took him into the lodge and searched him thoroughly. And when he went on to town it was in another carriage.

The proprietor was waiting for him. “I regret exceedingly, sir,” he said, in a frightened, deprecating voice, “but your rooms are taken from ten o’clock to-morrow.”

“That will be satisfactory to me,” replied Grafton. “I shall leave to-night or early in the morning.”

“Thank you, Highness.” The proprietor bowed low and beamed gratitude and relief.