obably old and plain. Madame desires a chaperon."

"You forget that Madame desires nothing but those certificates. And the
chaperon does not live who could keep an eye on Madame Sylvia Amerbach."

The mention of the certificates brought back all the Englishman's
discomfort, and he emptied his glass of wine not as a lover of good wine
should. Soon they rose from the table. The maid ran to the door and held
it open. Fitzgerald hurried through, but Maurice lingered a moment. He
put his hand under the porcelain chin and looked into the china-blue
eyes. Fitzgerald turned.

"What was that noise?" he asked, as Maurice shouldered him along the
hall.

"What noise?"

Madame came back to the chateau at five, and dinner was announced at
eight. The Countess Herzberg was young and pretty, the possessor of a
beautiful mouth and a charming smile. The Colonel did the honors at
the table. Maurice almost fancied himself in Vienna, the setting of the
dining room was so perfect. The entire room was paneled in walnut. On
the mantel over the great fireplace stood silver candlesticks with
wax tapers. The candlestick in the center of the table was composed of
twelve branches. The cuisine was delectable, the wines delicious. Madame
and the countess were in evening dress. The Colonel was brimming with
anecdote, the countess was witty, Madame was a sister to Aspasia.

Maurice, while he enjoyed this strange feast, was puzzled. It was very
irregular, and the Colonel's gray hairs did not serve to alter this
fact. What was the meaning of it? What lay underneath?

Sometimes he caught Fitzgerald in the act of staring at Madame when her
attention was otherwise engaged; at other times he saw that Madame was
returning this cursory investigation. There was, however, altogether a
different meaning in these surreptitious glances. In the one there were
interest, doubt, admiration; in the other, cold calculation. At no time
did the conversation touch politics, and the crown was a thousand miles
away--if surface indications went for aught.

Finally the Colonel rose. "A toast--to Madame the duchess, since this is
her very best wine!"

Maurice emptied his glass fast enough; but Fitzgerald lowered his eyes
and made no movement to raise his glass. The pupils in Madame's eyes
grew small.

"That is scarcely polite, Monsieur," she said.

"Madame," he replied gently, "my parole did not include toasts to her
Highness. My friend loves wine for its own sake, a