sieur?" he asked, his voice sunk to a whisper, his eyes
sweeping the doors and windows.

"The Archduke Karl is dead; his son Frederick Augustus, whom these
conspirators have imagined me to be--he, too, is dead."

"You are quite sure--you are quite sure, Mr. Armitage?"

"I am quite sure."

"That is not enough! We have a right to ask more than your word!"

"No, it is not enough," replied Armitage quietly. "Let me make my story
brief. I need not recite the peculiarities of the Archduke--his dislike
of conventional society, his contempt for sham and pretense. After living
a hermit life at one of the smallest and most obscure of the royal
estates for several years, he vanished utterly. That was fifteen years
ago."

"Yes; he was mad--quite mad," blurted the Baron.

"That was the common impression. He took his oldest son and went into
exile. Conjectures as to his whereabouts have filled the newspapers
sporadically ever since. He has been reported as appearing in the South
Sea Islands, in India, in Australia, in various parts of this country. In
truth he came directly to America and established himself as a farmer in
western Canada. His son was killed in an accident; the Archduke died
within the year."

Judge Claiborne bent forward in his chair as Armitage paused.

"What proof have you of this story, Mr. Armitage?"

"I am prepared for such a question, gentlemen. His identity I may
establish by various documents which he gave me for the purpose. For
greater security I locked them in a safety box of the Bronx Loan and
Trust Company in New York. To guard against accidents I named you jointly
with myself as entitled to the contents of that box. Here is the key."

As he placed the slim bit of steel on the table and stepped back to his
old position on the hearth, they saw how white he was, and that his hand
shook, and Dick begged him to sit down.

"Yes; will you not be seated, Monsieur?" said the Baron kindly.

"No; I shall have finished in a moment. The Archduke gave those documents
to me, and with them a paper that will explain much in the life of that
unhappy gentleman. It contains a disclosure that might in certain
emergencies be of very great value. I beg of you, believe that he was not
a fool, and not a madman. He sought exile for reasons--for the reason
that his son Francis, who has been plotting the murder of the new
Emperor-king, _is not his son_!"

"What!" roared the Baron.

"It is as I have said. The fait