ight
ruin the dinner--which they eventually did.

Things went on smoothly for a time. The orchestra was pom-pomming the
popular airs from _Faust_. (Where the deuce was that tow-headed
Dutchman?) Laughter rose and fell; the clinkle of glass was heard;
voices called. And then Max came in, looking as cool as you please,
though I could read by his heaving chest that he had been sprinting up
back streets. The boys crowded around him, and there was much ado over
the laggard.

Unfortunately the waiter had forgotten to bring a chair for his plate.
With a genial smile on his face, Max innocently stepped over to the
officers' table and plucked forth the vacant chair. For a wonder the
officers appeared to give this action no heed, and I was secretly
gratified. It was something to be a consul, after all. But I counted
my chickens too early.

"Where are the cigars?" I asked as Max sat down complacently.

"Cigars?"--blankly. "Hang me, I've clean forgotten them!" And then,
oblivious of the probable storm that was at that moment gathering for a
downpour over his luckless head, he told us the reason of his delay.

"There was a crowd around the palace," he began. "It seems that the
Princess Hildegarde has run away, and they believe that she has ridden
toward the Pass in a closed carriage. The police are at this very
moment scouring the country in that direction. She has eloped."

"Eloped?" we all cried, being more or less familiar with the state of
affairs at the palace.

"Good-by to Doppelkinn's _Frau_!"

"Good girl!"

"She has been missing since seven o'clock, when she drove away on the
pretense of visiting her father's old steward, who is ill," went on
Max, feeling the importance of his news. "They traced her there. From
the steward's the carriage was driven south, and that's the last seen
of her. There won't be any wedding at the cathedral next
Tuesday,"--laughing.

Queries and answers were going crisscross over the table, when I
observed with dread that Lieutenant von Stoerer had risen and was coming
our way. He stopped at Max's side. Max looked up to receive Von
Stoerer's glove full on the cheek. It was no gentle stroke. Von Stoerer
at once returned to his table and sat down.

For a moment we were all absolutely without power of motion or of
speech, Max's face grew as white as the table-cloth, and the print of
the glove glowed red against the white. I was horrified, for I knew
his tremendous stre