Prince, who trotted on ahead, had mentioned a Count. Was she married?
Was she of the royal blood? What extraordinary fate had made her the
friend of his sister? He looked back and saw the two guardsmen crossing
the bridge below, their eyes still upon him.

"It's very good of you," he said. She glanced back at him, a quaint
smile in her eyes.

"For Adele's sake, if you please. Trespassing is a very serious offence
here. How did you get in?"

"I hopped in, over the wall."

"I'd suggest that you do not hop out again. Hopping over the walls is
not looked upon with favour by the guards."

He recalled the distressed Mr. Hobbs. "The man from Cook's tried to
restrain me," he said in proper spirit. "He was very much upset."

"I dare say. You are a Cook's tourist, I see. How very interesting!
Bobby, Uncle Jack is waiting to take you to see the trained dogs at the
eastern gate."

The Prince gave a whoop of joy, but instantly regained his dignity.

"I can't go, auntie, until I've seen him safe outside the walls," he
said firmly. "I said I would."

They came to the little gate and passed through, into a winding path
that soon brought them to a wide, main-travelled avenue. A light broke
in upon Truxton's mind. He had it! This was the wonderful Countess
Marlanx! No sooner had he come to that decision than he was forced to
abandon it. The Countess's name was Ingomede and she already had been
pointed out to him.

"I suppose I shall have to recall Uncle Jack from exile," he heard the
Prince saying to the beautiful lady. Truxton decided that she was not
more than twenty-two. But they married very young in these queer old
countries--especially if they happened to be princes or princesses. He
wanted to talk, to ask questions, to proclaim his wonder, but discreetly
resolved that it was best to hold his tongue. He was by no means sure of
himself.

Be that as it may, he was filled with a strange rejoicing. Here was a
woman with whom he was as sure to fall in love as he was sure that the
sun shone. He liked the thought of it. Now he appreciated the
distinction between the Olga Platanova type and that which represented
the blood of kings. There _was_ a difference! Here was the true
Patrician!

The Castle suddenly loomed up before them--grey and frowning, not more
than three hundred yards away. He was possessed of a wild desire to walk
straight into the grim old place and proclaim himself the feudal owner,
seizing everything as