Painfully the two fugitives rode through the cobbled streets of Kunitz.  Priscilla was very shaky on a bicycle, and so was Fritzing.  Some years before this, when it had been the fashion, she had bicycled every day in the grand ducal park on the other side of the town.  Then, tired of it, she had given it up; and now for the last week or two, ever since Fritzing had told her that if they fled it would have to be on bicycles, she had pretended a renewed passion for it, riding every day round and round a circle of which the chilled and astonished Countess Disthal, whose duty it was to stand and watch, had been the disgusted central point.  But the cobbles of Kunitz are very different from those smooth places in the park.  All who bicycle round Kunitz know them as trying to the most skilful.  Naturally, then, the fugitives advanced very slowly, Fritzing’s heart in his mouth each time they passed a brightly-lit shop or a person who looked at them.  Conceive how nearly this poor heart must have jumped right out of his mouth, leaving him dead, when a policeman who had been watching them strode suddenly into the middle of the street, put up his hand, and said, “Halt.”

Fritzing, unstrung man, received a shock so awful that he obeyed by falling off.  Priscilla, wholly unused to being told to halt and absorbed by the difficulties of the way, did not grasp that the order was meant for her and rode painfully on.  Seeing this, the policeman very gallantly removed her from her bicycle by putting his arms round her and lifting her off.  He set her quite gently on her feet, and was altogether a charming policeman, as unlike those grim and ghastly eyes of the law that glare up and down the streets of, say, Berlin, as it is possible to imagine.

But Priscilla was perfectly molten with rage, insulted as she had never been in her life.  “How dare you—­how dare you,” she stammered, suffocating; and forgetting everything but an overwhelming desire to box the giant’s ears she had actually raised her hand to do it, which would of course have been the ruin of her plan and the end of my tale, when Fritzing, recovering his presence of mind, cried out in tones of unmistakable agony, “Niece, be calm.”

She calmed at once to a calm of frozen horror.

“Now, sir,” said Fritzing, assuming an air of brisk bravery and guiltlessness, “what can we do for you?”

“Light your lamps,” said the policeman, laconically.

They did; or rather Fritzing did, while Priscilla stood passive.

“I too have a niece,” said the policeman, watching Fritzing at work; “but I light no lamps for her.  One should not wait on one’s niece.  One’s niece should wait on one.”

Fritzing did not answer.  He finished lighting the lamps, and then held Priscilla’s bicycle and started her.

“I never did that for my niece,” said the policeman.

“Confound your niece, sir,” was on the tip of Fritzing’s tongue; but he gulped it down, and remarking instead as pleasantly as he could that being an uncle did not necessarily prevent your being a gentleman, picked up his bicycle and followed Priscilla.