_Iden._ There is some sense in that----

_Fritz_. No, Sir, be sure
'Twas none of our corps; but some petty, trivial
Picker and stealer, without art or genius.
The only question is--Who else could have
Access, save the Hungarian and yourself?

_Iden._ You don't mean me?

_Fritz_. No, sir; I honour more 60
Your talents----

_Iden._ And my principles, I hope.

_Fritz_. Of course. But to the point: What's to be done?

_Iden._ Nothing--but there's a good deal to be said.
We'll offer a reward; move heaven and earth,
And the police (though there's none nearer than
Frankfort); post notices in manuscript
(For we've no printer); and set by my clerk
To read them (for few can, save he and I).
We'll send out villains to strip beggars, and
Search empty pockets; also, to arrest 70
All gipsies, and ill-clothed and sallow people.
Prisoners we'll have at least, if not the culprit;
And for the Baron's gold--if 'tis not found,
At least he shall have the full satisfaction
Of melting twice its substance in the raising
The ghost of this rouleau. Here's alchemy
For your Lord's losses!

_Fritz_. He hath found a better.

_Iden._ _Where?_

_Fritz_. In a most immense inheritance.
The late Count Siegendorf, his distant kinsman,
Is dead near Prague, in his castle, and my Lord 80
Is on his way to take possession.

_Iden._ Was there
No heir?

_Fritz_. Oh, yes; but he has disappeared
Long from the world's eye, and, perhaps, the world.
A prodigal son, beneath his father's ban
For the last twenty years; for whom his sire
Refused to kill the fatted calf; and, therefore,
If living, he must chew the husks still. But
The Baron would find means to silence him,
Were he to re-appear: he's politic,
And has much influence with a certain court. 90

_Iden._ He's fortunate.

_Fritz_. 'Tis true, there is a grandson,
Whom the late Count reclaimed from his son's hands,
And educated as his heir; but, then,
His birth is doubtful.

_Iden._ How so?

_Fritz_. His sire made
A left-hand, love, imprudent s