"You love her—you love her—" in monotonous cadence. And he knew that, in spite of everything, he would love her to the end.

Then his thoughts went back to the beginning, and began again the terrible circle. Despairing of getting any sleep, and too restless to remain in the berth, Mark determined to get up and have a quiet smoke. He was just arising when there came a most terrific crash. The whole car seemed to rise under him. His head struck sharply against the end of the berth and for an instant he could not think clearly. Then he was out. It looked as if one end of the car had been shattered. There were shouts, and cries of pain. The corridor was filled with frightened people scantily clad; a flagman rushed by with a lantern and his hastily-flung words were caught and repeated:

"Collision—train ahead—wooden car crushed." Cries began to arise outside. A red glare showed itself at the windows. The passengers rushed out, all white with fear.

Saunders was beside Mark. "The Padre! Where is he?" he cried.

"In his berth; he may be hurt."

They drew back the curtains. Father Murray was huddled down at the end of his section, unconscious. The blow had stunned him. Mark lifted him up as Saunders went for water. Then they carried him out and laid him down in the air. He opened his eyes.

"What—what is it?" he asked.

"Wreck—there was a collision," answered Saunders.

Father Murray struggled to arise. "Collision? Then I must go forward, if it is forward—where the people are—maybe dying."

Mark made no attempt to stop him. He knew it would be useless, and he knew, too, that it was only the Soldier of the Cross called to his battlefield. When Saunders would have remonstrated Mark motioned him to silence.

"Let him go, Saunders," he said. "Perhaps his whole life has been a preparation for this. I have given up trying to interfere with God's ways."

So the Padre went, and his friends with him. The dead and wounded were being borne from the two wrecked Pullmans, but the Padre seemed led by some instinct to go on to where the engine was buried in the torn and splintered freight cars of the other train.

"The engineer and the fireman! Where are they?" he asked of the frightened conductor.

The man pointed to the heap of splinters. "In there," he answered.

The priest tore at the pile, but could make no impression on it.

"My God!" he cried to Mark; "they may need me. And I cannot get to them."

A groan beneath his very hands was the answer. The priest and Mark tore away enough of the splinters to see the face beneath. The eyes opened and, seeing the priest, the man essayed to speak; the priest bent low to catch the words.

"Father—don't—risk—trying—to get me—out—before you hear—my confession."

"But the flames are breaking out. You'll be caught," remonstrated Mark. "You have a chance if we act quickly."

"The only—chance—I want—is my—confession. Quick—Father."

With his head held close to that of the dying man, the priest listened. The men stood back and saw the smoke and flames arise out of the pile of splintered timbers. Then the priest's hand was raised in absolution.

"Quick now!" called Father Murray; "get him out."

The men stooped to obey, but saw that it was no use. The blood-spattered face was calm, and around the stiller lips there lingered a smile, as though the man had gone out in peace and unexpected contentment.

Turning aside, they found the fireman, and one man from the wrecked freight, lying beside the tracks—both dead. Then they went to the lengthening line along the fence. The priest bent over each recumbent form. At some he just glanced, and passed on, for they were dead. For others he had only a few words, and an encouraging prayer. But sometimes he stopped, and bent his head to listen, then lifted his hand in absolution; and Mark knew he was shriving another poor soul.

Suddenly the same thought seemed to come to both Mark and Saunders. Quickly passing along the line of pain and death, they both looked for the same face. It was not there. Yet she had been in the wrecked coach. The light of a relief train was showing far down the straight track, as Mark turned to a brakeman.

"Are there any others?"

"Yes; two—across the track."

Mark and Saunders hastened to the other side. Two women were bending over the forms laid on the ground. One glance was enough. The whole world seemed to spin around Mark Griffin. Ruth and Madame Neuville were lying there—both dead.

The strange women who were standing around seemed to understand. They stepped back. Mark knelt beside the girl's body. He could not see through his tears—but they helped him. He tried to pray, but found that he could only weep. It seemed as though there were a flood within pushing to find exit and bring comfort to him. He could think of her now in but one setting—a great empty church at the end of springtime, crowds passing outside, a desolate man behind a closed door, and a little child, with the face of an angel, sitting alone in a carven pew. He could hear her answer him in her childish prattle, could feel her cool little hand slip into his as she asked about the lonely man within. Then he remembered the kiss. The floods dried up. Mark's sorrow was beyond the consolation of tears.

Saunders aroused him.

"Be careful, Griffin. The Padre will come. Don't let him see her yet. He was hurt, you know, and he couldn't stand it."

Slowly Mark arose. He couldn't look at her again. Saunders said something to the women, and they covered both bodies with blankets from the wrecked car, just as the priest came up.

"Are there others?" the priest asked.

Saunders looked at Mark as if begging him to be silent.

"No, Father, no others."

"But these—" he pointed to the blanket-covered bodies.

"They are—already dead, Father."

"God rest them. I can do no more."

The priest turned to cross the track, and almost fell. Mark sprang to support him. The relief train came in and another priest alighted, with a Protestant clergyman, and the surgeons and nurses.

"It's all right, Father," said Father Murray to his confrere. "I found them all and gave absolution. I'm afraid that I am tired. There are many of your people, too," he said, turning to the Protestant clergyman. "I wish I were able to go back and show—"

He was tired. They carried him into the relief train, unconscious. The young priest and the Protestant clergyman came frequently to look at him as the train sped on toward Baltimore. But there was no cause for alarm; Father Murray was only overcome by his efforts and the blow. In half an hour he was helping again, Mark and Saunders watching closely, in fear that he might lift the blanket that covered the face of Ruth Atheson.

When Father Murray came to where she had been placed in the train, Mark put his hand on the priest's arm.

"Don't, please, Father. She is dead—one of the two you saw lying on the other side when you came over."

"Yes, I know. But I should like to see." Father Murray started to raise the cloth, but again Mark stopped him.

"Please do not look, Father."

The deep sadness in Mark's voice caused the priest to stare at him with widely opened eyes. A look of fear came into them as he glanced at the covered body. For the first time he seemed afraid, and Saunders drew near to catch him. But he did not fall.

"I think—Mark—that I will look. I can drink of the chalice—if it must be—I am sure I can. Don't be afraid for me, my friend. Draw the blanket back."

But Mark could not.

Father Murray pushed him gently aside and lifted the covering reverently and slowly. He dropped it with a faint gasp as the face stood revealed. Then he leaned over the dead girl and searched the features for a full half minute, that seemed an age to Mark. The priest's lips moved, but Mark caught only a few words: "I thank Thee for sparing me, Lord."

He caught the end of the blanket and once more covered the dead face. Then he turned and faced Mark and Saunders.

"God rest her. It is not Ruth."



Mark stared bewildered. Had the priest's, mind been affected by the blow, and the subsequent excitement? Father Murray sensed what was going on in Mark's mind.

"Can't you trust me, Mark? I know that the likeness is marvelous—"

"Likeness?" gasped Mark. But there was a whole world of hope in his voice.

"Yes, my friend—likeness. I—" the priest hesitated—"I knew her well. It is not Ruth."



CHAPTER XV

"I AM NOT THE DUCHESS!"

A long, low-built limousine kept passing and repassing the Ministry, and taking excursions to the parks, in an evident effort to kill time. At last, the street being well clear of pedestrians and vehicles, the car drew up in front of the house, the door of which was quickly thrown open. The chauffeur descended and opened the door of the car, but said nothing. A man stepped out backward.

"We have arrived, Your Highness," he said to someone within. "Will you walk across the path to the door, or will you force us again to be disrespectful in carrying out our orders?"

From within a girl's voice answered:

"You need not fear; I shall make no outcry."

"The word of Your Highness is given. It would be painful for us to be disrespectful again. Come."

The girl who stepped out of the car was unmistakably Ruth Atheson. Behind her came a raw-boned, muscular woman, and a powerful-looking man.

As she was hurried between the tall stone gateposts and up the cement walk, Ruth had but little time to observe her surroundings; but her eyes were quick, and she saw that the house she was about to enter was set some twenty feet back in quiet roomy grounds bordered by an ornamental stone wall. Distinguishing the house from its neighbors was a narrow veranda extending for some distance across the front, its slender columns rising to such a height that the flat roof, lodged with stone, formed a balcony easily accessible from the second floor. To one side, between the wall and the house, was a large tree whose foliage, loath to leave the swaying boughs, defied the autumn breeze.

Before she had time to observe more, the party entered the Ministry; the door was closed quickly, and Ruth's companions stood respectfully aside. His Excellency was already coming down the steps, and met her at the foot of the stairs. Bowing low, he kissed the white hand before Ruth could prevent.

"We are highly honored by the presence of Your Highness."

With another low bow he stood aside, and Ruth passed up the stairs. His Excellency conducted her into the room wherein the conference regarding her had been held only a few days before.

"Your Highness—" he began.

But Ruth interrupted him. "I do not understand your language."

The Minister rubbed his hands, smiled, and, still using the foreign language, said, "I am surprised that Your Highness should have forgotten your native tongue during such a short sojourn in America."

Ruth spoke somewhat haughtily.

"I think, Your Excellency, that I know who you are—and also why I am here. Permit me to tell you that you have made a serious blunder. I am not the Grand Duchess Carlotta."

The Minister smiled again, and started to speak. But Ruth again interrupted him.

"Pardon me, Your Excellency, but if you insist upon talking to me, I must again request that you speak a language I can understand. I have already told you that I do not understand what you say."

The Minister still kept his smile, and still rubbed his hands, but this time he spoke in English.

"It shall be as Your Highness wishes. It is your privilege to choose the language of conversation. We will speak in English, although your own tongue would perhaps be better."

"My own tongue," said Ruth, "is the language that I am using; and again I must inform Your Excellency that I am not the Grand Duchess. You have simply been guilty of abduction. You have taken the wrong person."

For answer the Minister went over to the mantel and picked up a portrait, which he extended toward the girl.

"I know," said Ruth, "I know. Many times in Europe I have been subjected to annoyance because of the resemblance. I know the Grand Duchess very well, but my name is Ruth Atheson."

The tolerant smile never left the face of the Minister.

"Your Highness shall have it as you wish. I am satisfied with the resemblance. Since you left San Sebastian there has been scarcely a minute that you have not been under surveillance. It is true that you were lost for a little while in Boston, but not completely. We traced you to Sihasset. We traced him there also finally—unfortunately for the poor fellow."

Ruth started: "You have not—"

The Minister looked sad. "Alas! Highness," he said, "he is no more—-an unfortunate accident. We do not even know where his body is. I fear he may have been drowned, or something worse. At any rate he will trouble you no more."

The face of the girl showed keen distress. "Poor child!" was all she could say.

"He was not, Highness, exactly a child, you know," suggested the Minister.

"I was not referring to him."

The Minister's smile returned.

"Then, Highness, perhaps you were referring to the Grand Duchess."

"I was referring to the Grand Duchess."

All this time His Excellency never lost his air of respect, but now a somewhat more familiar tone crept into his voice.

"Highness," he said, "you will pardon me, I know, if I issue orders in your regard. All is being done by your father's commands, given to me through His Majesty. You know as well as I do that your marriage to this Italian adventurer was impossible. You know that you are next in line of succession, but you do not know something else. You do not know that your father is even now dangerously ill. Your escapade has been hushed up to avoid scandal, for you may be sitting on the throne within a month. You must return to Ecknor, and you must return at once. The easiest way, and the best way, would be to notify the Washington papers that you have arrived on a visit to America incognito, and that you are now a guest at the Ministry. Though it is already midnight, I have prepared such a statement. Here is it." The Minister pointed to a number of sealed envelopes on the desk. "If you consent to be reasonable, I shall have these dispatched by messenger at once, and to-morrow make arrangements for your entertainment. We shall send you to see some of the cities of the United States before you leave again for Europe. In this way your presence in America is explained. Nothing need ever be said about this unfortunate matter, and I can promise you that nothing will be said about it when you return home."

It was Ruth's turn to smile.

"You are overlooking one thing, Excellency, and that the most important. I am not the Grand Duchess."

"Of course, Highness. You have explained that before. It would not become me to contradict you, and yet you cannot blame me for carrying out my orders. If you do not agree to the plan I have suggested, I must put you under restraint. No one will be permitted to see you, and proper arrangements will be made to have you transferred secretly to one of our warships, which will be making a cruise—for your especial benefit—to America in the course of a month. A month, Highness, is a long time to wait in restraint, but you must see that there is nothing else for me to do."

Ruth was obliged to smile in spite of herself at the mixture of firmness and respect in the suave Minister's tones. He was encouraged by the smile.

"Ah," he said, "I see that Your Highness will be reasonable."

Ruth looked him straight in the eye.

"But what if I should convince Your Excellency that you have made a mistake, that I am telling you the truth when I say I am not the Grand Duchess Carlotta?"

The Minister bowed. "It would be easy to convince me, Highness, if you could produce for me one who is more likely to be the Grand Duchess than yourself. But, alas! could there be two such faces in the world?" Admiration shone out of the little man's eyes.

"There is no doubt, Excellency," said Ruth, still smiling, "that His Majesty was wise in appointing you a diplomat. We shall be good friends even though I have to stay. You are making a mistake, and I am afraid you will have to pay for it. I shall, however, be a model boarder, and possibly even enjoy my trip on the warship. But I certainly shall not receive your friends at a reception, nor will I permit you to give me the honors due the Grand Duchess. Neither can I produce her. She is probably far away by this time. I will tell you my story, and you may judge for yourself."

His Excellency bowed profoundly.

"Your Highness is most gracious," he said. "Will you permit me to be seated?"

"Certainly, Your Excellency."

The Minister drew up a chair and sat down, with a low bow, before his desk; but not before he had placed Ruth in a chair where the light would shine full on her face. He seemed now to be a changed man—almost a judge; and the fingers thrummed on the glass as they had done during the conference with Wratslav and Ivan.

With a half-amused smile, Ruth began.

"Excellency, my name is Ruth Atheson. You may easily verify that by sending for my uncle, Monsignore Murray, of Sihasset, with whom I made my home until he went to college in Rome to study for the priesthood. I was left in Europe to receive my education. Afterward I came to America to be near my uncle, but I made frequent trips to Europe to visit friends. It was during one of these visits that I first met the Grand Duchess Carlotta, four years ago, at San Sebastian. The remarkable likeness between us caused me, as I have already told you, a great deal of annoyance. Her Highness heard of it and asked to meet me.

"We became close friends, so close that in her trouble she turned to me. I was with relatives in England at the time. She wrote asking me to receive her there, telling me that she intended to give up her claim to the throne and marry Luigi del Farno, whom she sincerely loved. I sent her a long letter warning her against the step—for I knew what it meant—and advising her that I was even then preparing to leave for America. Unfortunately, she knew my address and followed me to Sihasset, directing her lover to wait until she sent for him.

"I knew that the best means of concealing her would be to play upon the likeness between us, and never go out together. For extra precaution, when either of us went out, a veil was worn. She was taken for Ruth Atheson; and Ruth Atheson, by your detectives, was taken for the Grand Duchess Carlotta. Indeed," and here Ruth smiled, "she was very much taken—in an auto, and as far as Washington. You propose now to take her still farther. The Grand Duchess would know, ten minutes after it happened, of my abduction, and she would guess who was responsible. So you may be certain that she is no longer at Sihasset. The picture you have, Your Excellency, is the picture of the Grand Duchess, not of me. It happened that, as I was walking outside the gates of my home, your friends appeared. The mistake was quite natural."

The Minister had listened respectfully while Ruth spoke, but he was not convinced.

"It would be discourteous in me, Highness," he said, "to doubt your word. But it would be worse than discourteous were I to accept it. I am sorry; but you must offer me more than statements. My men could scarcely have been deceived. They followed you each time you came out. Two people do not look so much alike—especially outside of families—"

His Excellency's eyes opened as he flashed a keen look at Ruth. The name "Atheson" had suddenly commenced to bother him. What was it he should have remembered—and couldn't? The intentness of his gaze disconcerted Ruth. The Minister changed it to look down at his thrumming fingers, and continued in his suavest tones, following that scarcely perceptible pause.

"—as to deceive men trained in the art of spying. I can only repeat what I have already said: there are two courses open, and it is for you to determine which you prefer."

"You may be sure, then, Your Excellency," said Ruth, "that I shall not select the course that would put me in a false light before all the world. I am not the Grand Duchess Carlotta, and I must refuse to be taken for her. My uncle will not be long in deciding who is responsible for my abduction, and I can assure you that you will have explanations to make before your warship arrives."

The Minister arose promptly as Ruth stood up, her hand resting lightly on the desk.

"I am tired, Your Excellency," she continued, "and—since you insist on my being the guest of your government—I will ask to be conducted to my apartments."

The Minister bowed. "If Your Highness will permit." He touched a bell. The raw-boned woman was in the room so quickly that Ruth wondered if she had been all the time just outside the door. At a signal from His Excellency, the woman picked up Ruth's wrap and gloves. His Excellency meanwhile, with a low bow, had opened the door. Ruth passed into the broad corridor and, accompanied by the Minister, proceeded to a handsome suite of rooms.

The Minister turned to Ruth. "I am sorry, Your Highness, but I have strict instructions in the event of your refusal to comply with my suggestion, that you are to remain in strict seclusion. I cannot permit you to see or speak to anyone outside, so I hope you will not embarrass me by making any such request." He pointed toward the windows. "You will notice, Highness, that there is a balcony in front of your apartments. In the next room, which also opens upon the balcony, is a guard. There will be a guard also at your door and another on the lawn below. Your windows will be under constant surveillance, though you will never see the guards unless you venture forth. Your guards will be changed constantly, and it will be—" the minister's pause was significant, the tone of his voice even more so "—unwise—to attempt to gain their friendship. They might find it—disastrous." Again the smooth significance of the voice. He paused for a moment, then spoke more lightly.

"If Your Highness will permit, Madam, my wife, will call on you and be at your disposal at any time, as also my daughters. Since you have no maid with you, Madame Helda," His Excellency called the raw-boned woman from the next room as he spoke, "will wait upon you. Everything to make your stay pleasant and comfortable has been arranged. But you are an important personage and if we are firm, Your Highness, it is not because we wish to be, but only because of duty to your country, and to yourself. If you decide, at any time, that you should like to see America, you have only to summon me. Your Highness will permit me to retire?"

"Certainly, Your Excellency, and thank you."

With a profound bow His Excellency left the room. Ruth examined her apartments with a pleased smile of gratification—for they looked anything but a prison. The Minister knew how to make rooms pleasant.

The diplomat went slowly downstairs. He had lost his smile, and his face was contracted with worry. The girl's story had impressed him more than he had cared to own, and there was much of the human in him, in spite of the diplomat's veneer. Then the name "Atheson" sounded insistently in his ears and, momentarily, he felt that he was almost grasping the clue as he strove to remember.

As he entered the library, his secretary stood up, a yellow paper in his hands.

"I have been waiting to hand this to you personally, Excellency."

The Minister took the paper. It was a cablegram translated from code, which read:

"The Duke is dead. If Her Highness has arrived do everything possible to bring her to understand that there must be no scandal. Be absolutely firm and have her return at any risk without delay. The Caspian has been dispatched from the coast of France and should arrive in ten days. We have given out that the Duchess is traveling incognito, but has been notified to return."

The worry on the Minister's face deepened.

"This complicates matters, Wratslav," he said, "and makes it more imperative that Her Highness be kept most strictly secluded. Go to bed now. We shall have enough to keep us awake for the next ten days."

Wratslav left, but the Minister sat down at his desk. Morning found him there asleep.



CHAPTER XVI

HIS EXCELLENCY IS WORRIED

At eleven o'clock, His Excellency the Minister was handed a card which read:

"RIGHT REV. DONALD MURRAY, D.D."

Touching a bell, His Excellency summoned Wratslav.

"There is a clergyman," he said, "who calls on me. I do not know him, and of course I cannot guess his business. Perhaps you will see him."

The secretary bowed and went out. As he entered the reception room, Father Murray arose. Before the priest could speak, the secretary began:

"You desire to see His Excellency?"

Father Murray bowed.

"I am sorry, but His Excellency is very much engaged. He has requested me to ascertain the nature of your business."

"I regret that I may not tell you the nature of my business." Father Murray's reply was instant. "I may speak only to the Minister himself."

"Then," answered the secretary, "I regret to say that he cannot receive you. A diplomat's time is not his own. I am in his confidence. Could you not give me some inkling as to what you desire?"

"Since I cannot see him without giving you the information, you might say to His Excellency that I have come to speak to him in reference to Miss Ruth Atheson—" Father Murray paused, then added coolly: "He will understand."

The secretary bowed courteously. "I will deliver your message at once," he said.

In exactly one minute the Minister himself was bowing to Father Murray.

"I beg your pardon for detaining you, Reverend Sir, but, as my secretary explained, I am extremely busy. You mentioned Miss Atheson and, at least so I understand from my secretary, seemed to think I would know of her. In deference to your cloth, I thought I would see you personally, though I do not recall knowing anyone by that name. Perhaps she wishes a vise for a passport?"

"That might explain it," answered Father Murray; "but I think she desires a passport without the vise. I have reason to believe that Your Excellency knows something of her—rather—unexpected departure from her home in Sihasset. In fact, my information on that point is quite clear. I am informed that she was mistaken for another, a visitor in her home. Possibly she is here now. The passport desired is your permission for her to return to her friends."

The Minister's face expressed blankness.

"You have been misinformed," he answered. "I know nothing of Miss Atheson. Would you kindly give me some of the facts? That is, if you think it necessary to do so. It is possible I might be able to be of service to you; if so, do not hesitate to command me."

"The facts are very easily stated," said the priest. "First, the young lady is my niece."

It was the Minister's boast—privately, understand—that he could always tell when a man believed himself to be telling the truth, and now—past master in the art of diplomacy though he was—he found it hard to conceal his shocked surprise at this confirmation of the girl's story.

"You say she left her home unexpectedly?"

"She was seized by two men and hurried to a waiting auto, Your Excellency."

"And this happened where?"

"At Sihasset. Your Excellency passed through there quite recently, and will probably remember it."

The half-closed eyes almost smiled.

"Had your niece lived there long?"

"Only a few months. She arrived less than a week before her visitor."

Outwardly the Minister was calm, unmoved; but underneath the cold exterior the lurking fear was growing stronger. He must know more—all.

"Before that—?"

"She came direct from England, where she was visiting relatives."

"She was educated there perhaps?"

"She received her education principally in Europe."

"She has traveled much, then?"

"She has spent most of her time in America since I came here; but she has many friends both in England and on the Continent, and visits them quite frequently. She has very special friends in San Sebastian."

"Ah!"

"Perhaps Your Excellency knows something about it now?"

"Nothing, I assure you. But I find your story very interesting, and regret that I can see no way of assisting you."

Father Murray perfectly understood the kind of man he was dealing with. He must speak more plainly, suggesting in some degree the extent of his knowledge.

"I see, Your Excellency, that it will be necessary for me to mention another name, or rather to mention a title. There are, in your Great Kingdom, dependent duchies, and therefore people called grand dukes, and others called grand duchesses. Does that help Your Excellency to understand?"

The Minister still had control of himself, though he was greatly worried.

"It does not, Reverend Sir," he answered, "unless you might possibly be able to introduce me to a grand duchess in America. I am always interested in my countrymen—and women. If a grand duchess were brought here—that is," he corrected himself, smiling courteously, "if a grand duchess should call to see me, I should be glad to place my entire staff at your service to find the Ruth Atheson you speak of. Perhaps your Reverence understands?"

"Thoroughly," said Father Murray. "I could not fail to understand. But it would be difficult for me to bring a grand duchess to call on you, since the only one I have ever known is, unfortunately, dead."

At last the Minister lost his sang froid. His face was colorless.

"Perhaps you will tell me the name of this grand duchess whom you knew?"

"I think Your Excellency already knows."

"How did she die, and when?"

"I am sorry to say that she was killed in an accident."

"Where?"

"If Your Excellency will pick up this morning's paper—which you possibly have neglected to read—you will see a list of those killed in a railroad wreck which took place the night before last on a Washington-bound train. The list includes 'two women, unknown' and the pictures of both are printed. Their bodies are now in the morgue in Baltimore awaiting identification."

The Minister turned hastily to a table on which a number of newspapers had been carelessly laid. He picked up a Washington publication. On the front page was a picture of two women lying side by side—taken at the morgue in Baltimore. Despite the rigor of death on the features, the Minister could perceive in the face of the younger woman an unmistakable resemblance to the girl upstairs. Greatly agitated, he turned to the priest.

"How do I know," he asked, "that this—" pointing to the picture—"is not Ruth Atheson?"

"I think," said the priest, "that you will have to take my word for it—unless Your Excellency will verify my statement by an actual visit to the morgue. The body is still unburied."

"I shall send to the morgue."

"Then for the present I will bid Your Excellency good morning. Before going, however, I should like to emphasize that the lady now in your custody is my niece. And Baron Griffin, of the Irish peerage, is taking an active personal interest in the matter. Baron Griffin is now in Washington and requests me to state that he will give you until to-morrow morning to restore the lady to her friends. That will afford ample time for a visit to Baltimore. Unless Miss Atheson is with us by ten o'clock to-morrow morning the whole affair will be placed in the hands of the British Ambassador and of our own State Department—with all the details. I might add that I am stopping at the New Willard Hotel."

The priest looked at His Excellency, who again felt the insistent hammering of that "something" he should have remembered. The phrase, "all the details," bore an almost sinister significance.

His Excellency gave a sudden start. "Atheson—Atheson." His voice was tense and he spoke slowly. "What was her father's name?"

It was what the priest had been waiting for, had expected all along. Forgotten for years—yes. But where was the diplomat who did not have the information somewhere in his files? His face saddened as he answered.

"Edgar Atheson."

"Etkar—"

But the priest raised his hand.

"Edgar Atheson—if you please."

The Minister bowed. "And you are the brother of—"

"Alice Murray," the priest interrupted quietly, with a touch of dignified hauteur.

His Excellency was silent, and his visitor continued.

"I must also suggest to Your Excellency that the fate of the young Italian officer is known to others beside myself. It would make unfortunate state complications if the occurrence should be made public. I wish Your Excellency good morning."

He turned to go, but the Minister stood between him and the door.

"One moment," he said. "I regret that it is necessary to request your Reverence to remain. You will pardon the necessity, I am sure. I cannot permit His Majesty's secrets to be made known to the public. State complications often oblige us to take stern measures, and—" he continued coldly—"you are now on the territory of my royal master."

But Father Murray did not seem at all afraid.

"Do not think of detaining me, Your Excellency," he said quietly. "I mentioned Baron Griffin. There is another. Both know where I am. Nor need you worry as to our discretion. We are well enough acquainted with state complications to know when silence is best. We shall not speak unless it becomes necessary; but in that event we shall not hesitate. Don't make matters more difficult for yourself. I shall insist on the release of my niece, and I warn you that neither you nor His Majesty may touch either of us and go unscathed. Kindly stand aside."

But His Excellency still barred the way.

"Your Reverence," he said, after a pause, "I shall stand aside on one condition: that you will again give me your word that you will keep silence. To-morrow morning you shall have your answer; but in the meantime not one syllable about this must pass your lips, and Baron Griffin must not approach the British Embassy on this matter. There may be no need of his doing so at all. Please understand my position. I must guard His Majesty's interests, and do my best under difficult circumstances. Whether the lady be the Duchess or your niece, no harm shall come to her. Have I your word?"

"You have my word. Unless Your Excellency makes it necessary to act, we shall keep silence."

"Then," said the Minister, stepping aside, "I will bid you good morning."

Father Murray bowed himself out. He met Mark and Saunders at the corner. As they walked away, they saw nothing of the spy upon their footsteps; but they knew that the spy was there, for they had knowledge of the ways of diplomacy. As a matter of fact, inside of twenty minutes the Minister knew what room each man was occupying at the New Willard. An attache did not leave the hotel all night; and the next morning the same man found himself in the unusual surroundings of St. Patrick's Church where Father Murray said Mass.

When the Minister returned to the library his face was white. Wratslav was in his confidence, and did not have to wait long for information. For the first time in his diplomatic career of thirty years His Excellency was nonplussed.

"If she is dead, Wratslav," he said, "what will be said of us, and what new trouble will arrive? Who is next in line of succession?"

"The Duchy," said Wratslav, "will pass to the Grand Duke's brother."

"Not so bad, not so bad. The King would like that. I think, then, that the brother is the only one who will benefit by this unfortunate complication. The Salic law should be enforced throughout the whole world. When we have to deal with women, only the good God knows what's going to happen. I am afraid the girl above told the truth."

"But," objected Wratslav, "even if she did, Excellency, you cannot take the risk of letting her go without orders from His Majesty. The Grand Duchess was always clever. She knew she was tracked down. It would be easy for her to pretend that she did not know her native language. You cannot let her go until you are sure."

The Minister passed his hand wearily across his forehead and sighed.

"At any rate we can verify some of the details. You must go to Baltimore, Wratslav, and view the bodies. Arrange for the embalming. Say that the two are ladies of our country. Give any names you wish. Place both bodies in a vault until this thing is cleared up; and bring me half a dozen pictures of the young one, taken close to the face on every side. Note the hair, the clothes, any jewels she may have about her; but, above all, find out if there are any papers to be found. See also if there are identifying marks. Return to-night; for by to-morrow morning I must be ready to decide. I shall send no dispatches until then."

His Excellency turned to his papers, and Wratslav left the room.



CHAPTER XVII

THE OPEN DOOR

That night, Mark Griffin and Father Murray sat in the priest's room at the New Willard until very late. Father Murray was by far the more cheerful of the two, in spite of the strain upon him. Mark looked broken. He had come into a full knowledge of the fact that Ruth had not been false to him, and that no barrier existed to their union, but he could not close his eyes to the danger of the girl's situation. Father Murray, however, could see no dark clouds.

"My dear Mark," he said, "you don't understand the kind of a country you are in. Affairs of state here do not justify murder, and an elected public official cannot, even in the name diplomacy, connive at it. It is true that a Minister cannot very well be arrested, but a Minister can be disgraced, which is worse to his mind. You may be sure that our knowledge of the murder of the Italian will be quite sufficient to keep His Excellency in a painful state of suspense, and ultimately force him to yield."

"I could wish him," said Mark, "a more painful state of suspense."

Father Murray smiled at the grim jest. "He will never see the rope, Mark, you may be sure of that. But there will be no more murdering. The situation of the Ministry is bad enough as it is. His Excellency looked very much perturbed—for a diplomat—before I was done with him. There is nothing more certain than that he has had a messenger in Baltimore to-day, and, unless I mistake very much, he will be able to identify the body. Then they must free Ruth."

"I wish, Father," Mark's voice was very tense, "that I could look at things as you do. But I know how a court works, and how serious are the games of kings. Then I haven't religion to help me, as you have."

"I question a little," replied Father Murray, "if that last statement is true—that you have no religion. You know, Mark, I am beginning to think you have a great deal of religion. I wish that some who think that they have very much could learn how to make what is really their very little count as far as you have made yours count. It dawned upon me to-night that there is a good reason why the most religious people never make the best diplomats. Now, you would have been a failure in that career."

"I think, Father Murray, that your good opinion of me is at least partly due to the fact that I may yet be your nephew. Ruth is like a daughter to you; and so I gain in your esteem because of her."

"Yes," answered the priest thoughtfully, "Ruth is like a daughter to me. And it is a strange feeling for a priest to have—that he has someone looking up to him and loving him in that way. Though a priest is constituted the same as other men, long training and experience have made his life and mental attitude different from those of men of more worldly aspirations. A priest is bound to his work more closely than is any other person in the world. Duty is almost an instinct with him. That is why he seldom shines in any other line, no matter how talented he may be. Cardinal Richelieu and Cardinal Mazarin almost had to unfrock themselves in order to become statesmen. Cardinal Wolsey left a heritage that at best is of doubtful value—not because he was a priest as well as a lord chancellor, but because as lord chancellor he so often forgot that he was a priest. There are many great priest-authors, but few of them are among the greatest. A priest in politics does not usually hold his head, because politics isn't his place. There are priest-inventors; but somehow we forget the priest in the inventor, and feel that the latter title makes him a little less worthy of the former—rather illogical, is it not? The Abbot Mendel was a scientist, but it is only now that he is coming into his own; and how many know him only as Mendel, forgetting his priestly office? Liszt was a cleric, but few called him Abbe. A priest as a priest can be nothing else. In fact, it is almost inevitable that his greatness in anything else will detract from his priesthood. Now the Church, my dear Mark, has the wisdom of ages behind her. She never judges from the exceptions, but always from the rule. She gets better service from a man who has sunk his temporal interests in the spiritual. She is the sternest mistress the ages have produced; she wants whole-hearted service or none at all. I like thinking of Ruth as my daughter; but I am not averse, for the good of my ministry, to having someone else take the responsibility from off my shoulders."

"But," said Mark, "how could a wife and children interfere with a priest's duties to his flock?"

"The church does not let them interfere," answered Father Murray. "She holds a man to his sworn obligations taken in marriage. A husband must 'cleave to his wife.' How could a priestly husband do that and yet fulfill his vow to be faithful to his priesthood until death? His wife would come first. What of his priesthood? Besides, a father has for his children a love that would tend to nullify, only too often, the priest's obligations toward the children of his flock. A man who offers a supreme sacrifice, and is eternally willing to live it, must be supremely free. In theory, all clergymen must be prepared to sacrifice themselves for their people, for 'the Good Shepherd gives up his life for his sheep.' In practice, no one expects that except of the priest; but from him everyone expects it."

"Do you really think," asked Mark, "that those outside the Church expect such a sacrifice?"

Father Murray did not hesitate about his answer.

"Expect it? They demand it. Why, my dear Mark, even as a Presbyterian minister I expected it of the men I almost hated. I never liked priests then. Instinctively I classed them as my enemies, even as my personal enemies. Deep down in my heart I knew that, with the Catholic Church eliminated from Christianity, the whole fabric tottered and fell, and Christ was stamped with the mark of an impostor and a failure—His life, His wonders, and His death, shams. Instinctively I knew, too, that without the Catholic Church the Christian world would fall to the level of Rome at its worst, and that every enemy of Christ turned his face against her priests. I knew that every real atheist, every licentious man, most revolutionists, every anarchist, hated a priest. It annoyed me to think that they didn't hate me, the representative, as I thought, of a purer religion. But they did not hate me at all. They ignored the sacredness of my calling, and classed me with themselves because of what they thought was the common bond of enmity to the priest. I resented that, for, while I was against their enemy, I certainly was not with them. The anomaly of my position increased my bitterness toward priests until I came almost to welcome a scandal among them, even though I knew that every scandal reacted on my own kind. But each rare scandal served to throw into clearer relief the high honor and stern purity of the great mass of those men who had forsaken all to follow Christ. And my vague feeling of satisfaction was tempered by an insistent sense of my own injustice which would not be denied, for I knew that I was demanding of the Catholic priest greater things than I demanded of any other men. Even while I judged—and, judging, condemned—I knew that I was measuring him by his own magnificent standard, the very seeking of which made him worthy of honor. To have sought the highest goal and failed is better than never to have sought at all. So long as life lasts, no failure is forever; it is always possible to arise and return to the path. And a fall should call forth the charity of the beholder, leading him closer to God. But there is no charity for the Catholic priest who stumbles—no return save in spaces hidden from the world. The most arrant criminals, the most dangerous atheists, the most sincere Protestants, demand of the priest not only literal obedience to his vows, but a sublime observance of their spirit. Why, Mark, you demand it yourself—you know you do."

For a moment Mark did not answer.

"Yes," he said, after a pause, "I do demand it. I only wondered if others felt as I do. This job of trying to analyze one's own emotions and thoughts is a difficult one. I have been trying to do it for years. Frankly, there are things I cannot grasp. Let me put one of them before you now."

"Go on," said Father Murray. "I am glad the conversation is off the worry."

"You remember, Father," said Mark, "the day I met you in your study that eventful Sunday in London?"

The priest nodded.

"I had decided then to go out of the church, as I told you, to get away from my faith. I thought that I had come to that decision with a clear conscience, but I know now that I had merely built up a false one and that that was why I sought you out—not to give up, but to defy you, and defy my own heart at the same time. I thought that if I could justify myself before such a man as you it would set things at rest within me for the remainder of my days. I did not justify myself. Ever since that day I have been attracted by the open doors of Catholic churches. I never pass one without seeing that open door. The minute I seriously think of religion the picture of an open church door is in front of me; it has become almost an obsession. I seem to see a hand beckoning from that door; some day I shall see more than the hand—my mother's face will be behind it. I can't get away from it—and I can't understand why."

Father Murray's eyes were serious.

"Why, my dear Mark," he answered, "you ought to know that you can't get away. Do you suppose anybody ever got away from God? Do you suppose any man ever could close his eyes to the fact of His existence? Then how is it possible for you to get away from that which first told you of God, and which so long represented to you all that you knew about Him? There is in the Catholic faith a strange something which makes those who have not belonged to it vaguely uneasy, but which makes those who have once had it always unsatisfied without it. There is an influence akin to that of the magnetic pole, only it draws everything. It intrudes itself upon every life. There seems to be no middle course between loving it and hating it; but, once known, it cannot be ignored. It has had its chain around you, Mark, and you are only now realizing that you can't cast it off."

Mark Griffin was silent. For some minutes not a word was exchanged between the two men. Then Mark arose and, without looking at his friend, said good night and left the room.

A minute later he returned.

"Father," he said, "you are very hopeful about Ruth. I am trying to share your hope. If everything comes out right and she is not lost to me, will you—heretic or unfaithful son though I may still be, whichever you are pleased to call me—will you still be a friend and, should she accept me, join our hands?"

Father Murray walked over and put his hand on Mark's shoulders.

"I am afraid, Mark, that it is again the Faith instinct. Of course I will marry you—that I expected to do. I could not be a mere onlooker to give her away. When you get her, Mark, you will get her from me, not only with an uncle's blessing, but with another as strong as Mother Church can make it and as binding as eternity."



CHAPTER XVIII

SAUNDERS SCORES

It lacked but five minutes to the hour of ten next morning when the card of the Minister's secretary was handed to Father Murray. The priest sent down a polite request for the visitor to come to his room, and at once telephoned for Mark. Both men arrived at the same moment and were introduced at the door. Father Murray, at Saunders' own request, kept the detective in the background. Saunders had, in the meantime, been learning all he could about the Ministry and its interior—"for emergencies," he explained to Mark.

The secretary proceeded to business without delay.

"I have come on behalf of His Excellency," he said, "and to express his regrets."

"I scarcely expected regrets," answered the priest; "for at ten o'clock I was to have a definite answer."

"It is impossible, Reverend Sir, to give you that. His Excellency bade me offer full assurance that a definite answer will not long be delayed; but a somewhat unforeseen situation was found in Baltimore—a situation that was unforeseen by you, though rather expected by His Excellency."

"I cannot imagine," Father Murray spoke rather tartly, "what that situation could be."

"Let me explain then." The secretary talked as one sure of his ground. "I take it that neither Baron Griffin nor yourself, Reverend Sir, would be at all interested in the movements of the Grand Duchess?"

"Not particularly," answered the priest.

"Then I am sorry to say that the dead girl in Baltimore is surely your niece. The other—"

"At the Ministry—" Mark put in.

"Wherever she is," parried the secretary. "The other is the Grand Duchess."

"Perhaps, Mr. Secretary," quietly suggested Father Murray, "you will admit that I ought to know my own niece?"

"There is a great resemblance, Reverend Sir, between the two ladies. I have seen the dead girl, and have examined her belongings. Her apparel was made, it is true, in Paris; but your niece has recently been there. Her bag bears the initials, 'R.A.' The mesh bag is plainly marked in gold cut initials with the same letters. The dressing case is also marked 'R.A.' Even the handkerchiefs are thus marked."

"As she was a guest of my niece, and of course left Killimaga very hurriedly after the abduction," said Father Murray, "it is quite probable that the Grand Duchess took the first clothes and other effects that came to hand. She may even have purposely used things belonging to Miss Atheson in order not to have anything in her possession that might betray her identity."

"True, that is possible," the secretary admitted; "but it is not probable enough to satisfy His Excellency. Without a doubt, he ought to satisfy himself. In the meantime, while the doubt remains, it is clear that your answer cannot be given."

"Suppose we place this matter, then," said the priest, "where the answer will come in response to a demand? There is still the British Embassy and the Department of State."

"It will be plain to you, Reverend Sir," said the secretary, "that such a course would not be of assistance. Frankly, we do not want publicity; but, certainly, neither does your Department of State. In fact, I think that this affair might offer considerable embarrassment to the President himself at this time. And you? Would you wish the reporters to hear of it and have it published with all possible embellishments and sent broadcast? A few days will not be long in passing. I can vouch for the fact that the lady is quite comfortable. Why not see it from His Excellency's point of view?"

"Just what is that point of view?"

"I will be frank. You gentlemen know the situation. His Excellency's entire career is at stake. If this lady is the Grand Duchess and she does not go back to her throne—"

"Her throne?" Mark broke out in astonishment.

"Her father is dead. She is the reigning Grand Duchess, though she does not know it yet. You see the situation? His Excellency must be sure."

"But how does he mean to arrive at certainty?" asked Father Murray.

"That will be our task."

"And in the meantime?"

"She is safe."

"And if we seek the Department of State?"

"It will be the word of the minister from a friendly power against yours—and they will not find the lady."

"You would not—"

"They will not find the lady."

"Then," Mark spoke fiercely. "You have not kept your word."

"We have. She is safe, and shall be safe. Patience, if you please, and all will be well."

"It looks," said Father Murray, "as though we had no other choice."

Mark glanced at the priest, astonished that he should acquiesce so easily, but Father Murray gave him a quick, meaning look.

"That, Reverend Sir," answered the secretary, "is true. Since you see it so, I will bid you good day—to meet you again, shortly."

Scarcely had the secretary left the room when Father Murray was at the telephone calling Saunders.

"Come down," he directed, "at once."

Saunders was with them before either Mark or the priest spoke again.

"Well?" Saunders lost no time.

Father Murray gave him an outline of what had passed. Mark said nothing. A picture of despair, he was sitting with his head bowed upon his breast.

"And now, Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "it is your business to counsel—to be a real detective. What do you suggest?"

"She is at the Ministry," said Saunders. "Let that be my first statement. She is occupying a room which opens on a balcony of the second floor. There is a guard in the next room, which also opens on the same balcony. She is well watched. But I was in front of that house three hours last night, and again this morning—rather, I was in the house across the way. I had a good chance to communicate the news of your arrival to her—"

"What!" Mark was on his feet now.

"It was simple. I did it this morning with a hand mirror. You remember how bright the sun was about nine o'clock? Well, it was shining right into the room where I was, and when I saw that she was probably alone I caught the light on my little mirror and flashed the reflection into her room. I juggled it about as oddly as I could, flashing it across the book she was reading. Then I tried to make it write a word on her wall. Perhaps you would like to know the word, Baron?" He turned to Mark with a smile. "You would? Well, I tried to write 'M-A-R-K.' I think she understood, for she turned toward the window and seemed about to give me some signal. Then she raised her hand in a quick motion of alarm and began reading again. I withdrew the light, just in time, for some woman entered the room."

"I am afraid, Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "that you are dangerous, being a very clever man."

"But how, in Heaven's name," asked Mark, "did you get into that house? It is the home of—"

"Sure it is," answered Saunders. "Sure it is. But the family is away, and they left only the chauffeur at the residence. Chauffeurs are fine fellows—under certain circumstances. They have acquired the habit."

"The conditions," laughed Mark, "will, I suppose, appear in your accounts?"

"In my accounts? Yes . . . . Now to the rest of the discussion. I do not believe this affair can be arranged as easily as you think. It looks to me as if they really believe they have the Grand Duchess, and that we are trying to help her get away. They think she has planned the whole thing and that we are part of the plan. Miss Ruth was with Madam Neuville when they caught her. That's one point in their favor. Then the Duchess had things belonging to Miss Ruth, and had them when killed. That's point two for them. The face of Miss Ruth is the face on the portraits of the Grand Duchess. There's point three for them; and it is a fact that the face of the dead girl was slightly disfigured, as you know. The Minister dare not make a slip. He is not going to make one if he can help it. He will do something without delay to avoid all danger of your interference. If you go to court, you'll have publicity. If you go to the Department of State, their delays would make interference too late. If you don't act quick you'll have no chance to act at all. My advice is, to get into better communication with the young lady and then—to do a bit of quiet abduction ourselves."

"That's easy to say, Saunders," said Mark. "But how carry it out?"

"I'll have to think on that. But I'm sure it can be done." Saunders spoke convincingly. "Let me work this thing out as best I can."

"We are in your hands, Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "and we trust you."

"Thanks, Father, I'll do my best. Now let us go on—"

But at this moment the telephone bell rang. Father Murray answered the call.

"It's for you, Mark."

Mark took the receiver, and listened for a moment.

"All right; send him up."

He turned to his companions. "A colored man who insists on seeing me personally."

They had but a few minutes to wait. He came up with a bellboy and stood before them, bowing low—a typical Southern darkey, his hair whitened by age.

"Well, uncle, what can I do for you?" It was Mark who spoke.

"Well, sah, seein' as how I found a lettah addressed to you—"

"A letter?"

"Yes, sah." The old darkey was fumbling with his hat, trying to withdraw the letter he had put away so carefully.

"I found it down the street, sah, neah one of them thar big for'n houses."

"Where?" The word was almost shouted as Mark jumped to his feet.

But the trembling fingers had at last grasped and now held forth the precious letter. Mark tore it open, and with a cry of glad surprise began to devour its contents. When he had finished, he handed the letter to Father Murray without a word, and turned to the darkey.

"Thank you, uncle. I am very glad you brought it."

"Yes, sah. I thought as how you might want to get it, seein' as how it was a pretty young lady that threw it out."

"You saw her?"

"Yes, sah. I was right across the street, and she suah is pretty, sah." The old man smiled and bowed as Mark gave him a bill. "Thank you, sah; thank you, sah." And with a broad grin he left the room.

Father Murray was still reading the letter and Mark motioned to Saunders to come to his side. Looking over the priest's shoulder, Mark read the lines again:

"My Dear Mark: His Excellency isn't a very good housekeeper; I have found an envelope in one of the books, and a tiny slip of blue-corded pencil in the drawer of my dressing-table. I should like to pension the man who first put fly-leaves in a book. Fortunately, my maid isn't with me much, and the man in the yard can't see my front window because of the tree. So I have only to listen to the guard in the next room. He is always walking up and down, and when he reaches the uncarpeted space near the door I know he is at the end and ready to turn back. For that one second I can chance throwing this letter out into the street. I shall load it with a cut-glass ball I found on my desk. It is a beautiful little paper-weight, but its beauty won't save it this time. Someone will surely take the letter to you. Where to find you is my worry. But I know that the signal flashes could only mean that you are in the city, so I am risking the New Willard.

"A warship has been sent to take the Grand Duchess home. I cannot convince them that I am only Ruth Atheson. I am sure they are going to send me away. You must get me out of this house quickly, or it will be too late.

"Give me this special signal and I will be ready: At ten-thirty any morning flash the light and keep it still on the top of the gate pillar. Leave it there a moment; then flash it once across the top if you are coming that day, or twice for night. If you receive this letter, answer it by flashing the light into my room to-morrow morning. I shall pray for friendly sunlight.

"Thank you for coming. I don't know how you found out, but somehow I felt that you would. Love to the dear Father, if he is with you. I feel pretty sure he is.

"Ruth."

Saunders was the first to speak.

"I think, Father," he said, "that you have a clever niece. This makes things easy."

The Padre smiled. But Mark was not smiling—one can't do so little a thing to show unbounded joy.



CHAPTER XIX

CAPITULATION

It was early next morning when Saunders knocked at Mark Griffin's door. His knock was soft, for Mark's room adjoined Father Murray's. When Mark rose to let him in, the detective entered on tiptoe.

"I came down to see you early," he said, "because I wanted to dodge the Padre, and I thought perhaps he'd be over in the church for his Mass."

"A good Yankee guess," said Mark. "I heard him leave a few minutes ago, so you can talk as loud as you like. What is the matter? Anything gone wrong?"

"It's just this," said the detective. "We must make our attempt to get Miss Atheson without the Padre's knowing anything about it. I have been thinking about the thing, and I have a plan I believe will work. It's out of the question to get that guard off the watch in any ordinary way. If we attempt it, the house will be alarmed and we shall be taken for burglars."

"What difference if we are?" said Mark, very warmly. "If the Ministry can stand publicity, we can. I am in favor of taking strong measures right now."

"Not on your life, Griffin. Not on your life," said Saunders. "You don't seem to realize that the Padre cannot stand strong measures. Arrest as burglars would mean publicity, and there would be all sorts of fierce stories in the press. He is a priest—and then some."

"Well, what of it?"

"Sure, I know," soothed Saunders. "But the papers aren't in the journalistic game for dignity, and they'd play the Padre up for all he was worth; the more yellow the story, the better. The lady must be gotten out of the Ministry quietly. Once we have her, it will be up to the Ministry to make the next move. I have a hunch that His Excellency won't make it."

"Well," said Mark grudgingly, "I suppose the quiet way is the better way. What is your plan? Why not let Father Murray know?"

"I can't let him know, because he'd want to be in on it. At all risks, he's got to be kept out. What I propose to do is to start up such a trouble in the rear of the house that, for five minutes at least, there'll be no guard in the front."

"You would have to set it on fire to do that."

Saunders put his finger impressively upon a button of Mark's pajamas.

"You've guessed it, first shot out of the box. That's just what I'm going to do. Rather, that's what we're going to do."

Mark looked at him in solemn silence.

"Saunders, what did you have to put you in this condition?"

"Plain water and a cold bath," answered Saunders promptly.

"Then perhaps you'll explain."

"It'll be easy. They can put the fire out after the lady has gotten away. The Minister is going to dinner to-night. Madame Minister—or whatever you call her—will be with him; so will his flock of girls, and so, of course, will His Excellency's secretary. The rest of his staff don't live there. I figure that the guards, and the servants, and Miss Atheson will be the only ones in the house. The fire will bring all but Miss Atheson to the back. A rope ladder skillfully thrown will do the rest. Now you see why I can't mix the Padre up in that. We may be arrested, though I don't think we shall. The Minister doesn't want anything of that kind. This morning I'll flash the night escape signal to Miss Atheson. She'll be ready to leave, and you may be sure she'll find a way to warn us if the guard is still around. To-night you make an excuse to the Padre and slip away. He's going to see a friend anyhow at the University out in Brookland. I heard him say so. Tell him not to worry if you happen to be out when he comes back. Fix it up any way you like, and we'll make the play and win."

"Who's to do the 'skillful throwing' of the ladder?"

"A friend of mine who used to be a fireman."

"Do you think you can get him?"

"I've engaged him already."

"H-m." Mark stared at the detective, then burst forth with, "What time did you get up?"

"I didn't have to get up. I haven't gone to bed yet."

Mark sat down in his chair to think. After a while he put out his hand to the detective.

"I believe you've got it, Saunders. I'll do it—but you'd better get some rest"

"Me for my little trundle bed." And Saunders, in high spirits, waved his hand as he went out the door.

Left alone, Mark proceeded to dress, but awaited Father Murray's return before going down to breakfast. The time seemed long after breakfast, but at length the priest prepared to leave the hotel.

Mark spoke nonchalantly. "Oh, Father, I'm going out in the country with some friends, and may not get back till quite late to-night."

"All right, Mark. I hope you have a pleasant trip."

It was so easy that Mark felt a trifle worried. His device was crude, and the priest had never before been so easily deceived.

It was midnight when a big automobile containing Saunders, his ex-fireman friend and Mark, drew up cautiously on a side street near the Ministry. The men at first walked quietly past the house. They saw a light in the apartment occupied by Ruth, but there seemed to be no other light within. They then walked around the block, passing a policeman at the corner, and entered the alley behind the Ministry on the other side, out of the bluecoat's sight. There was no one in the back yard, and Saunders easily effected an entrance into the garage, which was not far from the house. Taking from his pocket an ordinary hot-water bag, he knocked the lock off the gasoline tank and proceeded to fill the bag with gasoline. Then he turned to Mark.

"That's all back here for you. Leave the rear work to me. Go around, you two, and get the ladder. In fifteen minutes I'll have a fire at the back door. You'll probably see the light. As soon as you hear cries from the house, listen well and you'll know whether or not the guard has rushed back. The big door-window on the balcony is always left open so that the guard can command the window of Miss Atheson's room, and you can easily hear him open and close the inside door. If he doesn't leave, the game's up. As soon as you are sure he's gone, throw up the ladder. If you get Miss Atheson, don't wait for me. Rush her to the automobile and back to the hotel. I'll take care of myself. Now go on, and wait for the big noise."

The three men moved toward the door, but fell back when they saw a dark figure plainly outlined against the dim light behind him. Saunders said something under his breath. The ex-fireman turned pale, for he thought it was a policeman.

"The country is beautiful in the autumn, isn't it, Mark?"

Mark was as embarrassed as any small boy caught in truancy.

"I thought you took things rather quietly, Father—I might have known it was too good to be true. What did you come here for? You surely knew it was something we could not have you concerned in."

The priest laughed at Mark's rueful tone.

"You should have known better, Mark, than to think I could be so easily deceived. I am going to be mixed up in anything that concerns the welfare of Ruth. Besides," he added, with another quiet laugh, "I heard everything you two said this morning. I saw Saunders coming down the hall as I was leaving, and, as it was rather early for a casual visit, I came back to see what he was up to."

"Then why in—I beg your pardon, Father—why in all common sense," blurted out Saunders, "did you come here? You can't help, and we are taking the only possible way."

"Happily," rejoined Father Murray, "it is not the only way. Come out of this, and I will tell you something you will be very glad to hear. Let us get back to your automobile. We must not go very far away, for we have yet to call at the Ministry, when His Excellency returns."

"To-night?"

"This morning," gently corrected the priest. It was now well on toward one o'clock.

The three men obeyed him. The ex-fireman got into the automobile, while Mark and Saunders walked with Father Murray a short distance off. When they were out of earshot, the priest turned to his companions.

"You two have been working your own plans while I have been working mine. When you had finished your little secret conference, I went to St. Patrick's and said Mass. When I returned to the hotel, Mark didn't seem to appreciate my company, so I left rather early. Before going to Brookland, I called at the State Department. Happily, I know someone quite high up, so I had no trouble. I told him the whole story, and he promised to help me. A few hours ago he sent for me again and—" the priest smiled at his hearers' evident anxiety to hear the details—"and everything will be all right now. We are to see the Minister as soon as he returns from the banquet. He will probably be back by one o'clock, and he will listen—and listen well—to what I have to say. The guard will be off before we leave, and Ruth will be at the hotel before noon."

"But, Father," said Mark, "how can you do it? The State Department cannot get into this thing officially—cannot interfere at all. It is too delicate. To-morrow morning Ruth will be on her way to the seacoast, as sure as fate. She will be kept hidden there until that warship comes."

"The warship will not come," answered Father Murray. "His Majesty's warships will be engaged very busily for some time to come. My information—information which so far has not leaked out to the public—is that the Big Kingdom is on the verge of war. There will be no warship flying that flag on this side of the water for a long time."

"War!" said Saunders. "But how does that help us?"

Before Father Murray could reply, an automobile passed swiftly.

"That is the Minister," remarked Saunders.

The priest looked up. "We must hurry. Leave everything to me."

Walking hastily, the trio approached the Minister, who had stopped at the curb to give some order to his chauffeur. The ladies of the party had already entered the house, accompanied by the secretary.

It was Father Murray who spoke.

"Pardon us, Your Excellency, for intruding on you at this hour, but it is necessary that we should speak to you at once. With your permission, we will go inside."

The Minister looked disturbed.

"Surely you know the hopelessness of it? I must warn you that you can secure nothing through violence. My guard would not hesitate to take forcible measures."

"There is no need to worry about that, Your Excellency," replied the priest. "No need at all. We shall not resort to violence. It will not be necessary. But the matter is important, and we must speak to you at once."

The words were spoken sharply. His Excellency hesitated for a moment longer, then threw out his hand and motioned them toward the house.

"Very well, gentlemen. Come."

The unwelcome guests were shown into the drawing-room and the lights switched on. His Excellency put his hat aside and turned to face his callers.

"It is already late, gentlemen, and I will ask you to be as brief as possible. What is it you wish?"

"We shall not detain you any longer than is absolutely necessary," said Father Murray. "Yesterday I received a visit from your secretary, who informed me that the probabilities were so strong that it was my niece who had been killed in the railroad accident that you would be obliged to decide against my claims for the present."

"That is exactly the case," replied His Excellency. "Permit me to say, Reverend Sir, that I can do nothing else. The Grand Duke is dead, and His Majesty has taken charge of the matter. The Grand Duchess is a ruler herself, at the present time. It is true she is only a foolish girl, who ran away to marry a nonentity—but affairs of state are greater than affairs of the heart. At all risks she must return to Ecknor. I must be certain of her identity before I can make another move. I appreciate the delicacy of the situation. I know that I have practically kidnaped the girl. But I am certain your State Department will want no trouble about it, nor will mine. If you are right, and the girl is your niece, you have no cause to fear for her; she will be returned to this country at once. If, on the contrary, she is the Grand Duchess, there is no reason why you should seek to have her taken away from us."

"Her own wishes—" began Saunders.

"Pardon me, sir. Her own wishes have nothing to do with the matter. I confess that it is embarrassing that she does not want to go, but it is more embarrassing that she ever went away. She must return to her country, wishes or no wishes. I will consider nothing else. I have my orders, and I shall obey them." The Minister turned toward the door, evidently desirous that his visitors should leave. "I will ask you to excuse me now, gentlemen."

But matters had not been arranged to Father Murray's satisfaction. He made no move to go, and looked straight into His Excellency's face as he spoke.

"Your Excellency has of course been informed of the critical condition of affairs in Europe?"

"I do not understand."

Though somewhat surprised, the priest could not doubt the sincerity of the speaker. He hesitated but a moment, then spoke quietly.

"Before the conversation proceeds farther, may I suggest that it might be well for Your Excellency to see if there are any late dispatches from your home government?" Noticing the Minister's haughty astonishment, he added, "I have come from the Department of State."

The Minister was startled, and turned to leave the room. "Pardon me a moment, gentlemen."

Mark turned to the priest. "What have you up your sleeve, Father?"

Father Murray only smiled. "I think, Mark," he said, "that you are certainly improving in the American brand of English. 'Up your sleeve' is decidedly good United States. You will want to stay with us—even though you are a Baron."

Mark could get no more out of the priest.

In a few minutes His Excellency returned, his face showing signs of extreme annoyance.

"I thank you, Reverend Sir," he said courteously. "I cannot understand why my dispatches were not delivered to me at the banquet. I can only express my regret." Father Murray bowed, and the Minister went on:

"The lady is probably asleep now, but I think I may safely promise that in a few hours she will be with you. It is more than probable that I shall relinquish all claims upon her."

Father Murray smiled and picked up his hat which was lying on a table.

"We may expect the lady before noon?"

"Yes."

"I thank Your Excellency. Permit us to bid you good morning."

With a courteous bow, Father Murray took his leave, followed by Mark and Saunders. The last they saw of His Excellency was the top of his head as he bowed them out.

Father Murray chuckled all the way back to the hotel—and kept his counsel. When they arrived at his bedroom door, Mark stopped him.

"Great Heavens, Father! You're not going to leave us in the dark like this?"

"'In the dark' is very good United States, Mark."

"But what does it mean? What card did you play?"

Father Murray's hand was on the doorknob, his eyes dancing with merriment.

"They say, Mark, that a royal flush beats everything. Well, I played that."

Mark tried to catch him but, with a low chuckle, he slipped into the room and closed the door.



CHAPTER XX

THE "DUCHESS" ABDICATES

A few hours later—about ten o'clock—an automobile stopped in front of the New Willard Hotel, and the Minister and his secretary alighted. The visitors were shown at once into Father Murray's room where Mark, Saunders and the priest waited. His Excellency took the chair offered him and, with some hesitation in his choice, of words, opened the conversation.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I first wish to congratulate you on your persistence. That persistence led me to think that there was some justice in your case. You can scarcely blame me, however, for not granting your wish immediately, especially since, as my secretary informed you, the effects of the dead lady seemed to indicate that it was Miss Atheson who had been killed. I find that I was mistaken. It was the Grand Duchess. There is absolutely no question about that now. As soon as you are ready to receive Miss Atheson, she shall leave the Ministry where, as you understand, she has been an honored guest."

The impetuous Saunders broke out: "Your Excellency means an honored prisoner."

But Father Murray stepped into the breach.

"Not at all, Saunders," he said, "not at all." Then he turned to the Minister. "Miss Atheson has been an honored guest at the Ministry. That is perfectly understood, Your Excellency, perfectly understood."

The Minister bowed. "I thank you, Reverend Sir. I am glad you do understand. Miss Atheson was a friend of the Grand Duchess Carlotta. She had known her in Europe. Why should she not have been a guest at the Ministry of the nation which exercises a protectorate over the domains of her late Royal Highness? I should wish to have that known to the public. This afternoon we shall give to the press the sad story of the visit to America of Her Royal Highness, under strict incognito. Her friend, Miss Atheson, was of course awaiting the arrival of the Grand Duchess, having come down in advance. Miss Atheson will, I am sure, be kind enough, and considerate enough of the memory of Her Highness, not to deny any of these statements."

"I am sure, Your Excellency," said the priest, "that Miss Atheson will keep strict silence as to the past. She would not wish to embarrass the situation nor in any way stain the memory of her dead friend. Of that you may rest assured."

"I beg your pardon," said His Excellency, "but—I trust I may rely upon the discretion of these gentlemen?"

Mark and Saunders bowed their assurance.

"Certainly."

"Your Excellency may rely on our discretion."

"It is needless for me to say," continued the Minister, "that the situation is most embarrassing. But there is no reason why the Grand Duchess should not have visited her friend—no reason why she should not have come to Washington on her way back to her own country. She would naturally wish to avoid publicity and, of course, the Ministry was constantly in touch with her moves. All this is a reasonable explanation of what has occurred. As to the body's having lain neglected in the Baltimore morgue for some hours, something must be assumed by the telegraph company. The body has already been embalmed, and arrangements have been made for its shipment to Europe. I shall myself go to Baltimore this afternoon. Do you, Reverend Sir, wish it known that the friend of the Grand Duchess is your niece?"

"Yes; but I wish it put to the world in the proper form. Since Your Excellency is preparing copy for the papers, may I ask if you will permit me to revise it?"

"That I shall be glad to do," said the Minister, his face all smiles.

As His Excellency was about to depart, Saunders stopped him.

"One word, Your Excellency. Baron Griffin and myself were witnesses to a very sad occurrence in Sihasset—"

The Minister turned hurriedly.

"You are mistaken, my friend," he said, significantly. "You are mistaken. You saw nothing—remember that. It will be better for all concerned. Your State Department would not thank you for making embarrassing statements. Things have come out happily for you, if not for the unfortunate Duchess. Yet, after all, perhaps the best thing that could have happened for her was what you believed—until you were corrected—happened in Sihasset. Baron Griffin will tell you that I speak the truth when I say that the next best thing was her own death."

Mark inclined his head, for he had heard something of the reputation of Luigi del Farno, when he was in Florence.

And then for the moment the Minister was forgotten in the man, and tears glistened in His Excellency's eyes.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I never saw Her Royal Highness. But I have heard a great deal of her, and I have followed her career. She was not born to be a Duchess. She had all my sympathy, for she was just a woman—beautiful, sentimental, loving. She was just the kind to do the rash things which courts will not tolerate. She was the kind to follow her own heart and not the dictates of kings. She was unhappy at court, and that unhappiness was increased when she fell in love with the Italian. She was the kind who would love until death—and then beyond the grave. She was one who would make any sacrifice to her devotion. But she fought against the solid rock of princely customs and prejudices, and there was nothing for her but to break upon it. Her love ruined that young officer. He was doomed from the moment she went away and he followed her. No earthly power could have saved him. But—believe me—she is better dead than married to him. We had his life investigated. He has had his just deserts. The Grand Duchess was not the first. It is well that she was the last, poor girl. The most merciful thing that could have happened to a woman of her character was the thing that did happen. She never knew of his fate. She died thinking that she should meet him again—that she had successfully broken down all barriers—that she and her lover could live their lives in peace, here in America. She never learned that there could be no happiness for her with a man like him. Let them rest in their graves—for graves are better than courts. As Minister I could not say these things; but I trust you, gentlemen, and I am talking to you now as a man who has known love himself. Good-bye."

The little man stiffened up and became the Minister again.

"When, gentlemen, will you be ready to receive Mademoiselle Atheson?"

Father Murray bowed. "Whenever Your Excellency is pleased to send her."

"Perhaps, Reverend Sir, you will honor me by your presence at luncheon?" As Father Murray hesitated, he added, "It will be better that you should accompany Mademoiselle Atheson to the hotel. Besides," and he smiled good-humoredly, "we can get together and revise those statements properly."

Father Murray bowed his acceptance and His Excellency took his leave. "Luncheon is at one," he remarked, as he left the room. "I should be pleased if you would come a little early. I know you will desire to talk with Mademoiselle."

Shortly after twelve Father Murray was admitted to the Ministry, where Ruth greeted him affectionately.

"How do you like being a Grand Duchess, Ruth?"

She made a little moue. "I don't like it at all. I'm abdicating to-day."

He laughed, and they chatted together for some time, being finally joined by His Excellency's daughters, who stayed with them until luncheon was served. The meal proved to be a merry one, and after it was over the two gentlemen withdrew to the library, followed by Wratslav. Then, accompanied by Ruth, Father Murray returned to the hotel—in a long, low-built limousine.

* * * * * *

The Bishop hurriedly pushed aside his almost untouched breakfast and hastened to his study. The time was short, and there was much to be done. His secretary, always prompt, handed him the morning papers, but the Bishop pushed them aside.

"No, I haven't time now. Put them in my grip."

The secretary started to speak, but the Bishop was already giving his instructions, and his subordinate waited, perforce, for a more opportune time—which never came.

On the train, the Bishop's breviary first claimed his attention. As he paused to rest his eyes, his idle glance was suddenly arrested by the flaring headlines of a paper across the aisle. Quickly he opened his grip and brought forth his own papers. Ah, here it was—on the first page.

MISS RUTH ATHESON TO WED BARON GRIFFIN Former Vicar-General Announces the Engagement of His Niece.

And, in the next column:

GRAND DUCHESS CARLOTTA VICTIM OF WRECK Ruler of Ecknor Killed While on Her Way to Washington.

The story was skillfully written. No one had "remembered," or at least influence had been able to suppress unpleasant comment. But for the Bishop the mere juxtaposition of words was enough. In fancy he was back in the Seminary at Rome where he had first met Donald Murray. He saw the tall young Englishman at his desk, in front of him the portrait of a charming child.

"My niece," he had said. "She's a winsome little thing. I miss her sorely."

He recalled, too, how someone had related the romance of Edgar Atheson, who had later become Grand Duke of Ecknor. Donald Murray had been strangely silent, he remembered. And—yes, it was just after that that the picture had disappeared from his desk. "It is best," had been Donald Murray's only comment.

The Bishop remembered now. And he knew why Monsignore had looked so surprised and reproachful when asked to give his "full" confidence regarding Ruth Atheson. He understood, now, the meaning of the quiet, "My Lord, there are some things I cannot discuss even with you."

The Bishop bowed his head. "Blind, blind," he murmured, "to have known so much, to have understood so little. Can you ever forgive me, my friend?"



CHAPTER XXI

THE BECKONING HAND

The autumn tints were full on the trees in Sihasset, but the air was still balmy enough to make the veranda of Father Murray's residence far more pleasant than indoors. The Pastor had returned. Pipe in hand, wearing his comfortable old cassock, and with a smile of ineffable peace on his face, he sat chatting with Saunders. The detective was evidently as pleased as Father Murray. He was leaning on "Old Hickory" and puffing at a cigar, with contentment in every line of his countenance.

"No job I ever did, Father, gave me more satisfaction than this one," he was saying. "It was well worth while, even though I'll have to go out now and look for another one."

"I do not believe, Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "that you will have to look for another position. In fact, I do not believe you would care for the same kind of position you had before—would you? I suppose I shall have to let you into a little secret. Mark is not going to stay all the time on his Irish estate. He has bought Killimaga and expects to be here for at least part of each year. I heard him say that he would try to influence you to become his intendent."

"Well, that sounds pretty big, Father. But what does an intendent intend to do? It's a new one on me."

"An intendent, my dear Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "is quite a personage on the other side. He is the man who runs the business affairs of a castle. He has charge of all the property. It is quite a good position; better, in fact, than that of a private detective. Then, you see, his care of the servants and continued watchfulness over the property makes detective experience somewhat valuable. If the salary suits you, by all means I would advise you to accept the offer. Besides, you know, Mr. Saunders, we have all gotten to like you very much. Apart from the fact that you are what Mrs. O'Leary would call 'a black Protestant,' I look upon you as one of my own."

Saunders laughed. "'A black Protestant' indeed! A lot of difference that makes with you. Why, you were 'a black Protestant' yourself, Father Murray, and in some ways I believe they only whitewashed you."

"Now, Mr. Saunders," reproved Father Murray, "that is not very complimentary. There is no whitewash or veneer about my Catholicity."

Despite the quizzical good-humor of the priest, there was a touch of seriousness in his voice, and Saunders hastened to explain.

"I didn't mean it quite that way, Father—only it strikes me that there is always a difference between what I call the 'simon-pure Catholic' and the one that wasn't born a Catholic."

"Well, Mr. Wise Man," said the priest, "perhaps you'll explain the difference."

Saunders looked puzzled. "It is a hard thing to explain, Father," he said, and then hesitated; "but I'll try to do it. In the first place—but this doesn't go for you—I think that the convert is more bigoted than the other kind. Now, honestly, don't you?"

Father Murray was amused. "I am glad, Mr. Saunders," he replied, "that you leave me out of it. That is a real compliment. Now, let us put it this way: If you had been the possessor of a million dollars from the time of your birth, it would be a matter of course with you, would it not?"

"Certainly."

"But if you should suddenly acquire a million dollars, you would naturally feel very much elated about it. Is that not true?"

"Yes—but what then?"

"That is the way it is with converts to anything. They suddenly acquire what to them is very precious and, like the newly-made millionaire, they are fearful of anything that threatens their wealth. They become enthusiasts about what they have—and I must confess that some of them even become a bit of a nuisance. But it is a good sign. It is a sign of sincerity, and you cannot overlook sincerity. There is too little of it in the world."

"I am mighty glad now," said Saunders, "that you haven't got it."

"What? The sincerity?"

"Oh, Lord, no!—the bigotry. Anyhow, if I stay here, you won't have much trouble with me for, like a certain man I once read about, the church I don't go to is the Methodist."

"Then I will have to give you up," said Father Murray. "If the Methodist were the one you actually did go to, I might have half a chance to make you a convert; but since you do not go to any, I am afraid that my counsels would fall upon stony ground. But you will always be welcome to the rectory, even if you do not bother the church," he added.

"But surely, Father," said Saunders, "you are not going to stay here? Hasn't the Bishop made you his Vicar-General again? And doesn't he want you to go back to the Cathedral?"

"That is true," answered the priest, his face becoming grave. "But I have grown very fond of Sihasset, and the Bishop has kindly given me permission to remain in charge of the parish here."

"I don't quite understand that," said the visitor in an urging way. "I should hate to lose you, Father—for of course I shall stay if the Baron offers me the position, and I'm going to bring the wife and kiddies, too—I like the place, and I like the people—but when I was a common soldier, I wanted to be a sergeant, and when I became sergeant I wanted to be a lieutenant. I suppose if I had gotten the lieutenancy, I should have wanted a captaincy, and then I shouldn't have been satisfied until I had charge of a battalion—and so on up the line. It takes all the ginger out of a man if he has no ambitions. Why shouldn't a priest have them, too?"

"Some of them have," answered Father Murray, "when they are young. But when they 'arrive' they begin to find out the truth of what they were told in the seminary long before—that 'arriving' does not make them any happier. In the Catholic Church, position means trouble and worry, because it means that you become more of a servant yet assume greater responsibilities. If a man can center his ambitions in the next world, it makes him a great deal happier in this. I have had my ambitions—and I have had them realized, too. But I found means to transplant them where they belonged. Having transplanted them, I do not propose to take them out of good heavenly soil and put them back on the earth again. As they are quite well grown now in the garden of God, I am not going to risk losing them by making a change, if I can help it. I shall stay in Sihasset if I am permitted to do so. Should I be called away, that is a different matter. Please God, when I go out—to quote my friend, Father Daly—I'll go out feet first."

"I suppose you're right, Father," said Saunders, "I suppose you're right. Anyhow, I'm glad that you're going to stay. By the way, now that you've told me one secret, won't you tell me another?"

Father Murray became very cheerful again. "I bet I can guess what you want to know now, Saunders."

"Well, I'll give you one guess," answered the detective.

"You want to know," said Father Murray, "why the Minister gave up so easily."

"I do," replied Saunders. "That's just what I want to know. You must have told the Baron, but you have never told me. I want to know what magic you worked."

"I suppose I shall have to tell you. Being a detective, you have learned to keep your mouth shut. Here is the whole story: As I told you, I had a friend in the State Department. Well, I went to him and, for old times' sake, he tried to help, and did. When I told him my story, he believed me, but he very frankly informed me that the matter was a delicate one and that, officially, he could do nothing. He wasn't entirely ignorant of the young Italian, but he said that would probably have to be 'forgotten.' He pointed out that the body had disappeared, that the man was absolutely unknown here, and that to prove murder would be practically impossible. Still, he agreed that our knowledge of the murder would be a powerful help toward making His Excellency reasonable. He outlined how that game should be played, and before I left he had arranged for someone to meet the Minister at the banquet that night, and delicately suggest that the State Department had had some inquiry regarding the disappearance of a brilliant young Italian officer. Knowing what would happen at the banquet, I was ready to meet the Minister. But it wasn't necessary to rely wholly on that. Late that night—after my return from Brookland—my friend sent for me to come to him at once. I went, and he showed me the translation of a cipher-dispatch which had just been received from Europe. That dispatch gave information concerning a dangerous situation which might lead to war. It was very long, and dwelt also on the situation in a certain Grand Duchy, the ruler of which had just died. The next in line, a girl, had disappeared. The King was worried. With war almost on his hands, he did not want the girl to take the throne, but rather desired the succession of her uncle, who was a strong soldier and just the man for the emergency. The dispatch left it plainly to be understood that the girl was in America, and that the King would be glad if she remained here permanently—in other words, that she be allowed quietly to disappear. It was a cold-blooded proposition to deprive her of her rights, or to find some means of doing it. Our own military attache at the royal capital secured the information; and, since America had been mentioned, thought it his duty to forward the dispatch to our State Department. As soon as my friend had read it, he sent for me. He put me under a pledge of secrecy until the matter was settled. It has been settled now; but there is no need of the story going any farther than yourself. 'Since the girl has died,' said my friend, 'the wishes of the King may easily be obeyed. The uncle will ascend the throne, and the Duchy will remain an ally of the Kingdom. This information should be in the hands of the Minister now and, instead of trying to prove that the lady is the Grand Duchess, he will probably be only too anxious to be rid of her.' I had all that information," continued Father Murray, "when I went to find you gentlemen and save you from getting into mischief."

"We would have had a glorious time, Father," sighed Saunders, regretfully. Then he leaned back and whistled softly as his mind grasped the full significance of the priest's words. "The detective business, Father," he said energetically, "has many angles, and few of them are right angles; but I think that the number of obtuse and other kind of angles is much larger in diplomacy. But I rather like that Minister," he added. "He isn't heartless."

"No," replied Father Murray, as he contemplatively lighted a cigar. "He was mighty human when he came to see us at the New Willard. Don't you remember how he forgot himself—even had tears in his eyes when he referred to the dead Duchess and the fact that she was better off in her grave than she would have been at court? His wife had taken a genuine liking to Ruth, and the man himself was more than half convinced that she was all she claimed to be, but he wasn't free to release her. He now wants to make reparation—but he wants also to support the idea that Ruth Atheson was only the friend of the dead Duchess and, therefore, that the Duchess is really dead. It would be very unfortunate, if, later on, it should prove that he had been deceived. He would find it difficult to explain matters to His Majesty if a Grand Duchess, supposedly dead, should suddenly prove very much alive and demand possession of a throne already occupied by her successor. So His Excellency wants the lady married as 'Ruth Atheson' with due solemnity and with proper witness. There is method, Mr. Saunders, even in his kindness."