ossible that they had changed them so
completely as to return to Schloss Lyndalberg? Or had they chosen to
vanish mysteriously through some back door out of Rhaetia, leaving no
trace which even a lover could find?

Leopold could not help recalling the Chancellor's "revelations," but
dismissed them as soon as they had crept into his brain. No matter
where the clue to the tangle might lie, he told himself that it was
not in any act of which Helen Mowbray need be ashamed.

He could think of nothing more to do but to go dismally back to
Kronburg, and await developments--or rather, to stir them up by every
means in his power. This was the course he finally chose; and, just as
he was about to act upon his decision, he remembered his carelessly
given promise to Count von Breitstein.

There was a telephone in the railway station at Felgarde, and Leopold
himself called up the Chancellor at Kronburg.

"My friends are not here. I'm starting for Kronburg as soon as
possible, either by the next train, or by special," he announced,
after a far-away squeak had signified Count von Breitstein's presence
at the other end. "I don't see why you wish to know, but I would not
break my promise. That's all; good-by--Eh?--What was that you said?"

"I have a--curious--piece of--news for you," came over the wire in the
Chancellor's voice. "It's--about the--ladies."

"What is it?" asked Leopold.

"I hinted that I had more information which I could not give you then.
But I am in a different position now. You did not find your friends in
the Orient Express."

"No," said the Emperor.

"They gave out that they were leaving Rhaetia. But they haven't
crossed the frontier."

"Thanks. That's exactly what I wanted to know."

"You remember a certain person whose name can't be mentioned over the
telephone, buying a hunting lodge near the village of Inseleden, in
the Buchenwald, last year?"

"Yes. I remember very well. But what has that to do with my friends?"

"The younger lady has gone there without her mother, who remains in
Kronburg, with the companion. It seems that the present owner of the
hunting lodge has been acquainted with them for some time, though he
was ignorant of their masquerade. You see, he knows them only under
their real name. The young lady is a singer in comic operas, a Miss
Jenny Brett, whose _dossier_ can be given you on demand. The owner of
the hunting lodge arrived at his place this morning, motored into
Kronburg, wh