There came a gentle tap on Grey’s door; then a rap, louder and more insistent; and then repeated knocking, aggressive, commanding; and Grey, aroused suddenly from what was more stupor than sleep, sat up in bed, startled, crying:

“Come in! Entrez! Herein!”

The door opened and Johann entered.

“It is long after noon, Herr Arndt,” he said, bowing, “and the funeral is arranged for three o’clock.”

Grey rubbed his eyes and made an effort to collect his scattered senses.

“Ah, yes,” he murmured, after a moment; “Herr Schlippenbach’s funeral.”

“It is very wet,” Johann continued; “since six this morning it has been raining. I have ordered Herr Arndt’s coffee. It will be here presently.”

“And my tub?” “It waits, Herr Arndt.”

While Grey, in bathrobe and slippers, was sipping his cafÉ au lait and nibbling a brioche, Captain Lindenwald presented himself.

“I have arranged everything,” he announced, with an air of thorough self-satisfaction; “for the present we will leave the remains here in Paris. Later we can decide whether they shall be brought on to KÜrschdorf or sent back to America. I have placed all the details of the obsequies in the hands of the Compagnie des Pompes FunÈbres. The temporary interment will be this afternoon at PÈre-la-Chaise. Will it be the pleasure of Herr Arndt to attend?”

Grey raised his cup to his lips and replaced it on the saucer before replying. He wished to make sure that he could rid his tone of all modulation.

“Yes,” he answered, speaking with great care, “I will go.” If he was to play the game it were better that he played every hand dealt to him.

After a little he asked:

“And the FraÜlein von Altdorf? How is she today?”

“Oh, much better,” returned the Herr Captain, his face beaming; “she is more composed, more resigned. She is a wonderful young woman, Herr Arndt; and oh, she is so beautiful!”

“Yes, she is very lovely,” Grey acquiesced.

But his thoughts at the moment were not of her. Lindenwald’s eulogy had set vibrant a chord of emotion, had conjured a picture, had reproduced a dream that seemed a reality. It was indeed difficult for him to reconcile the remembrance of that sleep fantasy, so vivid was it in every detail, with the knowledge that it was not a waking experience. He had sat for hours, it seemed, beside Hope Van Tuyl, gazing into the limpid depths of her sympathetic eyes, listening to the melody of her clear, full-toned voice. They were in a great garden with parterres of gay, sweet-scented flowers—roses and heliotrope and geraniums—and smooth terraces of greensward with marble nymphs and satyrs on mossy pedestals, and above them the kindly, protecting, leafy branches of an old oak. He had, he thought, just found again the girl he loved—found her after a long, long separation, and now she was close within his hungry arms and her lips were always very near his own. He was telling her some fantastic tale, like a bit culled from the Arthurian legends, of how he was a great king, and had only been away to claim his own, and now she was to be his queen and sit beside him on the throne in robes of purple and ermine and help him rule his people with justice and mercy.

Yet here he was sitting in a Paris hotel bedchamber, with a man who was almost a stranger, while the rain was pelting on the window-panes and the room was so gloomy that he could scarcely see the face of his visitor. The recollection of the dream thus contrasted filled him with a spirit of rebellion. He was beset with an impulse to reveal without further delay his true condition and let the culprits, whoever they might be, escape with their object undefined and their plunder unrestored. The craving to see and hold and talk to the woman he adored obsessed him for the moment, and he felt that all else was trivial and futile.

It was in this mood still that Jack O’Hara found him an hour later.

“I am off to America by the first steamer,” he said, joyously. “It is all tommyrot following this thing up. I’m going back, tell everything as far as I know, and let the police do the rest.”

The Irishman looked at him in amazement.

“What’s come over you, lad?” he asked, solemnly. “Have you gone off your head or are you dreaming? Sure you’re not going to back out now when we’ve got such a pretty little fight ahead of us, with the enemy in ambush and afraid to show their colours?”

“No, I’m not off my head,” Grey replied a little less gaily. He did not like the suggested imputation of cowardice.

“Then you are dreaming, sure.”

“I have been.” The reply was ambiguous, but O’Hara took it that his friend had changed his mind.

“And you’re not now; you’re awake, wide awake, eh? And you’re going to stop and rout ’em, horse, foot, and dragoon? That’s right, man. What the devil put the going-home notion in your noddle? I’ll wager twenty pounds it’s a woman you’ve been thinking of.”

Grey stood by the window looking out on the drenched Boulevard. O’Hara’s words were an inspiration, but the face and form of Hope were still before him and her voice still echoed in his ears. The longing would not easily down.

“I’ve been looking after your blessed cablegrams,” the Irishman went on. “There’s only one there for you. I told ’em my name was Grey and opened it and read it. Then I gave it back to ’em, and explained it must be for same other Grey. I told ’em my name was Charley, and that that was addressed to Carey.”

“Only one?” Grey exclaimed, in a tone of disappointment, turning. “I don’t suppose Mallory will answer. What a damned blackguard he must think me! He’s handed my cable over to the police, of course. I suppose extradition papers are under way by this time. But the one? What was it?”

“Here, I wrote it down so as not to forget,” and O’Hara, after fumbling in his breast pocket, produced an envelope on which was written:

Overcome with joy. I never gave up hope. God bless you.—Mother.

Grey turned to the window again, his eyes as wet as the panes. After a little he asked:

“And that was the only one?” “The only one.”

Then Hope had not answered. She believed him guilty, of course. It would have been better to have let her, like the rest of the world, think him dead. What a trickster is the weaver of dreams! How real had seemed his vision, and yet how untrue! And he had thought of going to her as fast as the speediest ocean liner could take him. Oh, yes, he was awake now; wide, wide awake.

“I couldn’t get the box at the Gare du Nord,” O’Hara continued. “They’d given a brass or something for it and had no record of your name or Schlippenbach’s either. You had better ask Johann about it, or Lutz.”

“I will,” said Grey.

A hearse had stopped before the door, and he began now putting on his gloves.

“No,” he added as he buttoned the grey suÈdes, “I’m not going back to America, O’Hara. Maybe I’ll never go back. I’m going to Schlippenbach’s funeral now, and I’m going to follow this thing to the end of the route if it takes me through hell.” His face was very set and solemn, and he spoke with a determination that made O’Hara’s eyes dance.

“Bravo, lad!” he cried, enthusiastically. “I still have two months’ leave, and I’ll go with you, hand in hand, every step of the way.”

The drive to PÈre-la-Chaise was very long and very boresome. Captain Lindenwald was not inclined to conversation and Grey dared not attempt to lead in the direction he wished, for fear of revealing how little he knew of what had been prearranged. He gathered, however, that it had been planned to start for Budavia early in the following week and that the death of Herr Schlippenbach was not to interfere with this arrangement; but of what they were going for—of what was to follow their arrival, he could glean no hint.

On the return from the cemetery, however, an incident occurred which he regarded as significant, though it only added to his perplexity. The carriage had just crossed the Place de la RÉpublique, past the great bronze statue which adorns the square, and was rolling leisurely along the Boulevard St. Martin, when Lindenwald suddenly drew back in the corner in evident trepidation, catching Grey’s arm and dragging him back with him.

“For God’s sake!” he whispered, excitedly. “Did you see that man?”

“What man?” Grey asked, a little annoyed. He had seen a score of men. The day was waning; the rain had ceased and there was the usual crowd that throngs the boulevards at the green hour.

Lindenwald clutched him tightly for a moment, huddled away from the window of the voiture. At this point the sidewalks are somewhat higher than the roadway and they had both been looking up at the pedestrians, more interested in the procession than in each other.

“He was standing in front of the Folies Dramatiques,” Lindenwald explained, presently; “his presence here means no good.”

“But who?” Grey persisted.

“It was the Baron von Einhard. You know who the Baron von Einhard is. Ah! It is very plain. In some way, in spite of all our precautions, Hugo has got word. We must now be more than careful. The Baron, my dear Herr Arndt, would not hesitate one little—one very little moment to cut your throat if he got the chance.” Lindenwald shut his teeth tight, puckered his lips, and peered convincingly at Grey between half-lowered lids.

The American crushed back an exclamation of surprise. In its place he substituted an inquiry.

“What is the Baron like?” he asked, wondering whether he had seen him. The question was a risk, but he ventured.

“He is small, dark, sharp-featured. He looks more like an Italian than a Budavian, and he is vengeful. He is, too, oh, so shrewd! Six assassinations are at his door, and yet—positively, Herr Arndt, what I say is true—not one of them can be brought home to him.”

“You are quite sure it was he whom you saw?”

“Oh, quite sure, of a certainty. I only trust he did not see us. But his eyes are lynx-like. If he saw us you can be assured we are even now being followed. Will it be too warm, do you think, if I lower the shade? He is not here alone, and they are on the lookout.”

“As you think best,” Grey replied. And Captain Lindenwald pulled down the silk covering of the window.

When at length they alighted at the HÔtel Grammont and entered the courtyard the portier informed the Captain that a gentleman was waiting for him in the reading-room. He went in, with Grey, who wished to look at a newspaper, closely following; and a tall, sallow-faced young man, faultlessly attired, rose and came towards them.

Grey turned aside to a table, but Lindenwald greeted the caller with no little suavity of manner.

“Ah, Monsieur Edson,” he said, affably, “this is indeed an honour. You have not, I hope, been waiting long?”

“I have a favour to ask,” the young diplomat replied, “and I shall take only a moment of your time, Captain. I today received advices from the State Department at Washington that there is an American stopping at this hotel whose name is Grey, though they tell me here there is no one of that name in the house. It seems he cabled to New York yesterday and gave this as his address. He is wanted for embezzlement.” Grey overheard the words and stood motionless, tense, listening eagerly. His eyes were bent over the table, but it was so dark in the room that the print of the paper before him was but a grey blur.

“And you would like me to—?” asked Lindenwald. There was no savour of agitation in his voice, and Grey wondered how much or how little he knew.

“I thought perhaps you might aid me. Fortunately I have his description. I dined in company with a man last night who has seen him. He is tall, well set-up, and has fair hair, beard and moustache.”

“There are many such,” replied the Captain, shrugging his shoulders.

A servant entered with a burning wax taper, and Grey stepped aside for him to light the gas over the table. As he did so he faced Edson, and the illumination lit his features.

“Ah, there,” the caller whispered, a little nervously, “standing by the table behind you—there is a man of the very type. Perhaps that is he.”

Captain Lindenwald turned his head. “Ha, ha!” he laughed, clapping his hand on Edson’s shoulder, “that is very droll, very. Do you remember what I told you yesterday at the Embassy?”

Edson nodded.

“Yes, yes, of course. But——”

“Well, it is he.”

“He?”

“Yes, to be sure. In the strictest confidence, mind you. I would not tell you were it not that I want to assure you beyond all question that he, of all persons, cannot be suspected.”

Grey smiled in spite of himself.

“That man is——”

“Sh!” warned Lindenwald his voice very low. “Yes, that man is His Royal Highness, Prince Maximilian, heir apparent to the throne of Budavia.”

In spite of the low tone of the speaker Grey caught the words, and the blood went rushing to his head and set him dizzy. What monstrous lie was this? He heir apparent to the throne of Budavia! He, a descendant of plain Puritan ancestry, a republican of republicans, being posed as a royal personage! It was staggering. And this was the solution to the riddle. This was why they were going to KÜrschdorf. Herr Arndt was a name assumed. The Crown Prince was travelling incognito. It was all too ridiculous. He had suspected some mad scheme from Schlippenbach’s death-bed admonition and from Lutz’s overheard conversation with Johann, but this comic opera dÉnouement was quite beyond anything he had permitted himself to fancy.

The young gentleman from the United States Embassy was evidently duly impressed. He coloured and he apologised and he looked hard at Grey to make sure that he would recognise Prince Maximilian should he again chance to see him—dining at Armenonville, for instance.

“I hope,” he added, with a faint smile, “that you will not mention my stupid blunder to His Royal Highness. I should be mortified to have him know.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed Lindenwald again, “he would take it as a good joke. Oh, yes, I must tell him. He will be so much amused.”

Edson sidled toward the door and the Budavian officer turned to accompany him, but stopped short, his face suddenly pallid. Standing on the threshold, not five paces away, was the small, wiry, dark, sharp-featured man he had noticed on the Boulevard St. Martin.

“Good evening, Herr Captain,” said the Baron von Einhard, his eyes twinkling.

Captain Lindenwald saluted in military fashion, and the Baron returned the salute as Edson brushed by him into the passage.

“You did not, I suppose, expect to see me in Paris, eh?” the newcomer observed.

“You were the last man for whom I looked, Baron,” the officer rejoined. “What is the latest news from KÜrschdorf?”

“You have not seen the evening papers, then?”

“No.”

“His Majesty is much worse. His condition became alarming this morning, at nine o’clock. He cannot, the doctors say, live over forty-eight hours.” He made the announcement with an air of pleasurable anticipation. “I should fancy, Herr Captain, that your presence might be required at the Palace. Or,” and there was a world of cunning suggestion in his tone, “you have more important business here in Paris?”

“As you say, Herr Baron,” Lindenwald replied, visibly uncomfortable. He was questioning whether the Baron had overheard his conversation with Edson, and if so, how much. The man’s small eyes were like the eyes of a snake, beady and sinister. They compelled against one’s will.

“You remain here long?” von Einhard continued, smiling insinuatingly.

“The length of my stay is undetermined.”

“I trust we shall meet again,” and the Baron, still smiling, bowed, turned on his heel and vanished.

Grey, who had been listening, now rejoined the Captain.

“He followed us, evidently,” he ventured.

“He is a serpent,” Lindenwald commented, gravely, “and one to be feared. He crawls in the grass, gives no sign and strikes with poisoned fang where and when least expected. We must be very wary—very wary, indeed, until we are quite sure he has left the city. Ah, and that is not the worst—how can we ever be sure? This is a case, Herr Arndt, where caution is more advisable than valour.”

“And your advice is?” Grey queried.

“My advice is never to go out unaccompanied. Already he is setting his traps, arranging his pitfalls. You cannot conceive of his ingenuity. I am vexed because I feel myself unequal to combat his trickery. In fair fight I have no fear, but to fence with von Einhard is to be always in danger of the impalpable.”

When they had separated and Grey was alone in his room, he flung himself into a comfortable chair, lighted a cigarette and gave himself up to reflection. The gravity of the affair was not to be minimized, yet he could not repress a smile as he thought of the triangular form the matter had assumed and of the complications, ramifications and cross-purposes that had developed. Personally his object was to detect and bring to justice those persons who had, for some reason not yet divulged, been using him as a cat’s-paw to attain an end of which he was also ignorant. He had, of course, every reason to believe that in this plot Captain Lindenwald was a prominent factor, and as such his hand was against him. Meanwhile the machinery of international justice had been set in motion to bring about his own apprehension, extradition and punishment for a crime he had never contemplated and never willingly committed. Whether to this infraction Captain Lindenwald had been a party he had no means of knowing, but now it had turned out that another enemy was in the field—an aggressive foe seeking his life—and in this new battle Captain Lindenwald, strangely enough, was, it would seem, his staunch ally. He wondered whether any man had ever before been so harassed, so persecuted, so maligned, so humiliated through no fault of his own; and his sense of injury waxed more galling and his resentment more turbulently avid. He grew impatient of every hour’s delay in the chase, restless under his enforced inaction and fretful over the tardy revelation of past events and the development of future plans.

Then the thought of the box at the Gare du Nord recurred to him, and he got up and rang for Johann. But the youth knew nothing of it. “Lutz, perhaps,” he said; “it is possible that Lutz knows. I will send him to you, Herr Arndt.”

And a little later Lutz came in. His air was timid and his manner uneasy. His eyes were furtive and refused to meet his master’s, and his fingers were in constant motion.

“Ah, Lutz,” Grey greeted him composedly, taking great care to erase all modulation from his tone, “there is somewhere, probably among poor Herr Schlippenbach’s effects, a receipt or check for a box at a railway station here in Paris—at the Gare du Nord, in fact. I wish you would see if you can find it for me.”

“Yes, Herr Arndt.” His gaze was on the carpet.

“Immediately, Lutz.”

“Yes, Herr Arndt.”

“That is all.”

When he had gone Grey began pacing the floor like a madman, his fists clenched, his eyes blazing.

“Was ever guilt more apparent?” he asked himself. “It is written all over him.” And he wondered how he had controlled himself, how he had refrained from catching him by the throat and strangling a confession from him without more ado.

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