On the way back to Paris Grey’s thoughtful silence contrasted so markedly with his cheery loquacity of the morning that FraÜlein von Altdorf was led to observe:

“I do believe you’re tired, Uncle Max.”

“Tired?” he repeated, forcing a smile. “No, my child, not a bit. The day has been a joy. I’ve revelled in it. Tired! The idea! Am I a septuagenarian or am I an invalid?”

“But you haven’t spoken for fifteen whole minutes.”

“Haven’t I, really? I suppose I was thinking.”

“Of what?” she asked, mischievously.

Grey hesitated a little moment.

“Of fortune and misfortune,” he answered, gravely; “of Fate and the pranks she plays; of life and its inconsistencies; of right and wrong and rewards and punishments; of love and hatred and jealousy; of fair women and brutal, selfish men; of a hundred and one things more or less interesting and absorbing.”

“Oh, you were busy!” the girl exclaimed. “I don’t wonder you didn’t hear my question. Altogether I have asked it three times.”

“I beg your pardon,” he pleaded contritely; “that was very rude of me. Won’t you ask it once more?”

They had a compartment to themselves and were seated opposite each other. The train had just left AsniÈres and was crossing the Seine.

“I was wondering whether you noticed the lady we passed in the garden of the Petit Trianon. I don’t believe you did.”

“We passed many ladies,” Grey temporised; “I can’t say that I noticed them all.”

“Oh, but this one was very beautiful,” she insisted. “She had such colouring and such lovely brown eyes, and I think she thought she recognised you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me at the time?” he asked, striving to appear unconscious.

“Why didn’t I? That’s a nice question. I nudged you and I tried to catch your eye; and, after we had gone on a few steps I begged you to look back, but you wouldn’t heed me. Oh, you were thinking very hard just then. Was it about fair ladies and brutal, selfish men, do you imagine?”

“Probably,” Grey answered. “I’m sorry I was so rude.” And once more he relapsed into meditative silence.

Very bitter indeed was his self-condemnation. If he could have had a second more in which to make his decision he would have decided differently. Of that he was sure. It may have been that he took the course of wisdom, but wisdom and love have been enemies since time began, and where his allegiance was due there he had proved traitor. He contrasted his selfishness with her loyalty, and his ready willingness to conclude that she believed ill of him with her now proved steadfastness, even to the disregard of place and circumstance. He had metaphorically given her a curse for a caress, and he mentally and emotionally scourged himself for his brutality. The suggestion that desperate ills require desperate remedies—that it was necessary to be cruel that he might be kind—presented itself, but he refused to admit that it had any application. He was consumed by a desire to make reparation, to wipe out this blot of cowardice with some recklessly bold bit of bravery. He would go to her hotel—the Van Tuyls always stopped at the Ritz—and regardless of consequences he would present himself, explain all, and, in abject abasement, beseech her pardon. This, he argued, was the very least he could do. But when he reached this conclusion doubts assailed him and robbed him of what little peace he had garnered. Would she receive him? What right had he to expect that she could permit him to speak to her, now that he had repulsed her—cut her in the presence of her friends and further insulted and humiliated her by appearing more than interested in another woman—and a very young and very pretty woman, too? He most assuredly could have no just cause for complaint should she adopt such an attitude. She had indicated clearly enough that as long as only newspaper reports were his accusers she was willing to await his side of the story, but when she had given him an opportunity to defend himself, and he had chosen to ignore it and herself as well, was it in reason to hope for any further forbearance?

It was in this mood that Grey’s return from Versailles was accomplished; in this ill-temper with himself and this doubt of being able to undo what he looked on as a more dire menace to his happiness than all the charges of defalcation and embezzlement and all the dangers of extradition.

When at length he and Miss von Altdorf reached the HÔtel Grammont they found O’Hara awaiting them. He came running out to the fiacre and gave a hand to the young woman, assisting her to alight.

“Where on earth have you been?” he asked, smiling; but Grey caught a note of concern in his voice.

“To Versailles, for the day,” the FraÜlein answered, gaily. “And oh, such a lovely day, too! I’ve enjoyed every minute of it.”

“Didn’t they tell you?” Grey asked. “Lindenwald knew.”

“I haven’t seen him.”

“Johann knew.” “I haven’t seen Johann either.”

It was not until the two men were together in Grey’s room that O’Hara broke his news.

“They’ve cleared out,” he said, bluntly. “What do you think of that for a rum go?”

Grey, who had been drawing off his gloves, stopped midway in the process.

“Cleared out!” he repeated, in astonishment. “Who have cleared out? What do you mean?”

“The whole crew,” declared O’Hara, “Lindenwald and Lutz and Johann. I understood at first that you and the FraÜlein had gone with them, but the portier told me that you and she had started earlier and that your traps were still here.”

“But they?” Grey pursued, eagerly. “Where have they gone? Did they leave no word?”

“Devil a word,” returned the Irishman. “They paid their bill—that is, the Captain did—and departed, kit and all.”

“What does it mean?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

Grey drew off his other glove.

“They’re frightened,” he decided; “they have grown suspicious. They never knew at what minute they would be pounced on. Their plot was clear enough. What they wanted to do was to palm me off as the Crown Prince of Budavia and put me on the throne when the King dies, as he is going to, if he has not already.”

“What rot!” exclaimed O’Hara. “Have you gone clean daft? What would be their object? How could they hope to do it?”

“I don’t know anything about their object,” Grey continued, calmly; “that’s still a puzzle to me; but they might hope for a lot with me in the condition I was in a few days ago. I apparently did their bidding to their utmost satisfaction.”

“It’s very improbable,” the Irishman insisted; “you’ll never be able to make any one believe it.”

“Won’t I?” the American demanded. “Well, then, wait and see. I’ve learned a lot since I saw you last. As much as I’ve told you is very plain. I have witnesses to prove it. And the other proofs—my God! What do you suppose has become of that box at the Gare du Nord? I sent Lutz for the check or receipt last night, and he never brought it. And this ring!” he went on, talking more to himself than to his companion, “it was in that box. Of course it was. And—” He ceased speaking—his thoughts were coming now too rapidly for words—and stood with lips pressed and eyelids drawn, gazing through his lashes into space.

He was satisfied that someone—he suspected it was Lutz—had got the box from the railway station, had rifled it, had abstracted the ring, had made so bold as to wear it. Yes, when Lutz had come in answer to his summons of the previous evening, he was wearing it even then. It must have been too large for him. He had been nervous, his hands had been twitching, and it had dropped from his finger, and—but no; could it be possible? Was it—was it Lutz who had returned in the early morning with intent to smother him? Was it he with whom he had wrestled? Was it from his hand that he had stripped this heirloom of the Budavian Court? And Lindenwald’s assurance that it bore the von Einhard arms? What could that mean, other than that Lindenwald was in league with Lutz and striving to shield him? And now their flight.... “Will you kindly tell me whether you are subject to these attacks?” asked O’Hara, interrupting his train of thought. “If I’m to be your lieutenant and serve in your campaign, it strikes me that I should have your full and entire confidence, and yet you are keeping something from me.”

“I’ll tell you everything after dinner,” Grey consented. “We’ll have a council of war and we’ll map out a plan of action.”

When O’Hara had run away to dress, promising to meet Grey and the FraÜlein in a private room of the CafÉ Riche at seven-thirty and dine with them, the American’s thoughts reverted to his resolution to see Hope Van Tuyl at all hazards. The disappearance of Lindenwald and the others, however, had again somewhat altered the situation. It was now more than ever necessary that he retain his freedom in order to track and run down the fugitives, and he recognised the risk he took in going to a hotel patronised largely by Americans and sending up a card bearing his real name. Once more his judgment was in the ascendency—wisdom had gained a slight advantage over the little blind god. Sitting down at his table Grey took up a pen and wrote:

My Darling: For the last two hours I have been in purgatory. What must you think of me? I would come to you at once if I could, but it is impossible. Tomorrow morning, though, I must see you. At the end of the Tuileries gardens, near the Place de la Concorde, there is, you may remember, a grove of trees. Arrange to be there with your maid at eleven o’clock. There will be few there at that hour.

This he despatched to the Ritz by messenger.

“Fancy Captain Lindenwald going off!” cried Minna, as, promptly at twenty minutes past seven, she joined Grey in the drawing-room. “Where has he gone, do you suppose? And Lutz, too, and even Johann.”

“They’ve gone to the seaside over Sunday,” was Grey’s jesting reply. “Paris was getting too warm for them.”

“But,” she protested, at fault, “I understood we were all to start for KÜrschdorf tomorrow night.”

“Were we? Who said so?”

“Captain Lindenwald, last evening.”

“Well, Captain Lindenwald has changed his plans.” “It is certainly very mysterious,” she concluded, perplexedly. “I couldn’t believe it when the chambermaid told me.” And the great solemn eyes were graver than usual.

When, after dinner, they returned to the hotel, Grey’s glance detected a telegram in the rack addressed to the decamping Captain and he made haste to appropriate it. A little later, in his room, he handed it to O’Hara.

“It may be of service,” he said, significantly. “I don’t much like prying into another man’s affairs, but in this case his and mine are, in a way, identical.”

The Irishman nodded.

“We’ll keep it until you’ve told me all you know without it,” he suggested, taking out a briarwood pipe and filling it, “so drive ahead, lad, and don’t omit any details.”

And then Grey told his story, beginning with the glimpse of von Einhard, on the Boulevard St. Martin; following with the visit of Edson and the overheard announcement that he, Grey, was the Crown Prince Maximilian; the reappearance of the Baron; Lutz’s suspicious demeanour; the attempt on his life; the finding of the ring; the ring’s history; and, finally, his own deductions.

O’Hara listened attentively, blowing great clouds of smoke from under his red moustache. Occasionally he interrupted with a question. When the recital was concluded he got up and extended his hand.

“Well done, man,” he exclaimed; “you have been making hay in sun and rain alike. I wonder if we could lay our hands on this Baron von Einhard. It seems to me that he is just the chap we want to make friends with.”

“I dare say he is still hanging about,” the American replied; “he probably has not lost sight of me. I’d know him if I saw him again. We’ll have a look in at the cafÉs a little later. And now about Lindenwald and the others. Didn’t the portier know which way they went?”

“No, they hailed a couple of passing fiacres, and he didn’t hear what directions were given.”

Grey tore open the telegram which O’Hara had tossed onto the table. It was dated KÜrschdorf. “The King is dead,” it read; “wire when you will be here,” and it was signed, “Ritter.” He pushed it across to the Irishman, remarking:

“He probably had that news from some other source before he left.”

“You think it hastened him?”

“In a way, yes. At least it directed him,” Grey said, with conviction.

O’Hara looked at him inquiringly.

“You surely don’t imagine the three of them have gone to KÜrschdorf?” he blurted, in a tone of surprise.

“I do mean that exactly.”

“But why there, of all places? If Lindenwald is expected to bring the Crown Prince with him he surely wouldn’t go there empty-handed. What excuses could he make?”

“I don’t pretend to conjecture his excuses,” Grey replied, smiling, “but it seems very clear to me that KÜrschdorf is his only sanctuary. There he will be with friends. Whatever he says is likely to be believed. If he fled elsewhere he would be in constant danger of arrest. His very flight would be evidence of his guilt.”

O’Hara nodded. “You’re probably right,” he acquiesced; “anyway he turned he had to take chances, and KÜrschdorf must have looked to him the least dangerous. What do you propose to do?”

“Follow him,” Grey answered, promptly. “Take the Orient Express tomorrow night.”

“And once we are there; what then?”

“The Crown Prince claims the throne.”

O’Hara put down his pipe and sat staring in amazement.

“Claims the throne?” he repeated, “the Crown Prince?”

“The Crown Prince claims the throne.” Grey reiterated it with calm decision.

“You mean that you will claim the throne?” the Irishman persisted, still perplexed.

“Precisely.”

The dragoon guard got up and walked the length of the room, smoking very hard.

“That’s a dangerous business,” he said, as he came back and stood with the tips of his fingers resting on the table, “a very dangerous business.”

“There’s no other way in God’s world to find out who are in the plot,” Grey returned, grimly. “I don’t quite see—” O’Hara began, but the American interrupted him.

“I haven’t mastered all the details myself,” he said, “but that’s the kernel of the nut we’re cracking. Perhaps von Einhard can aid us. He must know the conspirators, and he can give us the names of the men into whose hands we are supposed to play. I have a suspicion that the Budavian Minister here in Paris is one of the lot. But it won’t do to take that for granted. Otherwise I’d see him before leaving.”

“I have been thinking over the idea of consulting the Baron,” O’Hara ventured, after a pause. “Suppose he won’t believe you?”

“Oh, but he will,” the other insisted; “I’ll make it quite clear to him that I am an American and that I’m a victim and not an aspirant for kingly honours, except in so far as goes to set matters right and bring the guilty to justice.”

“It’s a risk that you take there, lad,” the Irishman argued; “the more I think of it the bigger it looks. He’s just as likely to fancy it’s only a game of yours to throw him off the scent and secure your own ends. I don’t believe Lindenwald exaggerated his shrewdness. I’ve heard of him myself.”

Grey rose, leaned over the table and took a cigarette from a tray.

“Come,” he said, as he struck a match, “we’re liable to find him about this time.”

During the past twenty-four hours he had experienced a gradual reawakening of faculties that had previously lain dull or dormant. His five months of lost memory had had an after-effect in what he could only describe as a mental thickness. His thoughts had run slowly and sluggishly; he had lacked keenness of perception and the ability to draw deductions; he had been all the while conscious of a timidity, an indecision, a hesitation, a tendency to rely upon others, against which he strove with but little effect. His actions were dictated by outside suggestion rather than by his own judgment. And with this, too, was a contrasting dignity of demeanour unnatural to him, and all the more annoying in that it was, he knew, superficial and at discord with his temperament.

The clearing of his brain, the reassertion of his naturally alert mentality, the recovery of his self-reliance, were now becoming evident; but that unwonted, and to him unwelcome, exaggeration of dignity in his carriage and demeanour gave no sign of deserting him.

O’Hara observed the change and delighted in it. The soldier in him could find only admiration for the manner in which Grey had risen mentally in one day from a subaltern to a commanding officer; and the dignified, distinguished air which had seemed, he once thought, a little incongruous appeared now as most fitting and admirable.

Together they went in search of the Budavian Baron. Into one cafÉ after another they wandered, but always without success. They encountered acquaintances by the dozen—men and women whom Grey and O’Hara had met since their arrival in Paris, and whom Grey had no recollection of ever having seen before—but the little, wiry, sallow-faced Italian-looking nobleman was nowhere in evidence.

It is never safe, however, to assume that a visitor to the French capital is abed and asleep simply because he cannot be found in any of the boulevard cafÉs around the hour of midnight.

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