going
to be married, called upon me at my club.

"My dear fellow," he said, "I'm a sportsman; I couldn't think of
keepin' on your house when I know you'll want it to settle down in.
I've seen another across the water that'll suit me just as well, and
you shall have your own again before the weddin'."

He was a kind-hearted man and sent me a wedding present--a silver
bootjack to take off my hunting boots with. He said it might be useful
to both of us, which was a distinct libel on Dolores' dear little feet.

At last the eve of our wedding came and Claridge's Hotel was filled
from basement to roof, principally with the relatives of both families.
For a bevy of Dons with their wives and daughters, all kindred of my
little Dolores, had crossed the Atlantic, glad of the excuse to visit
London, and a contingent from France of the old _noblesse_, her
mother's relatives, had arrived to do honour to the nuptials of the
little heiress. And because she was already a large possessor of the
goods of this world they brought more to swell it; gold, silver, and
precious stones in such quantities that it took two big rooms at
Claridge's to contain them, and four detectives to watch them, two by
day and two by night.

But among these presents were two which puzzled me greatly--they came
anonymously--a _riviere_ of splendid diamonds for Dolores, a splendid
motor car for me.

Had she been but a poor relation I fear her display of wedding gifts
would have been but a meagre one. As it was, perhaps St. Nivel's terse
comment on the "show," as he called it, was nearest to the truth.

"Bill," he said confidentially, "all this splendour is simply
_barbaric_."

But nobody grudged little Dolores her grand wedding, nor the
magnificent gifts, for every one loved her.

I was sitting calmly at breakfast on the morning of the day preceding
our wedding, with my mind filled to overflowing with the happiness
before me, when St. Nivel burst in upon me.

"Look here, Bill," he cried, flourishing a newspaper before my eyes.
"Look here, _some one_ has got his deserts at last!"

I took the paper from him and read the paragraph he pointed to; it was
headed--

"Tragic Death of the Duke of Rittersheim."

I paused, put down the newspaper, and looked at St. Nivel.

"Yes," he said, interpreting my look; "you will be troubled with him no
more in this world; he's dead. Read it and see."

I took up the paper and read on--

"MUNICH, _Tuesday