“He would be king; he would be king!”

Then Armitage spoke sharply to Claiborne.

“That will do.  The gentleman may retire now.”

As Claiborne thrust Chauvenet out of the room, Armitage turned to the little company, smiling.

“I am not Frederick Augustus, the son of the Archduke Karl,” he said quietly; “nor did I ever pretend that I was, except to lead those men on in their conspiracy.  The cigarette case that caused so much trouble at Mr. Claiborne’s supper-party belongs to me.  Here it is.”

The old Ambassador snatched it from him eagerly.

“This device—­the falcon poised upon a silver helmet!  You have much to explain, Monsieur.”

“It is the coat-of-arms of the house of Schomburg.  The case belonged to Frederick Augustus, Karl’s son; and this sword was his; and these orders and that cloak lying yonder—­all were his.  They were gifts from his father.  And believe me, my friends, I came by them honestly.”

The Baron bent over the table and spilled the orders from their silver box and scanned them eagerly.  The colored ribbons, the glittering jewels, held the eyes of all.  Many of them were the insignia of rare orders no longer conferred.  There were the crown and pendant cross of the Invincible Knights of Zaringer; the white falcon upon a silver helmet, swung from a ribbon of cloth of gold—­the familiar device of the house of Schomburg, the gold Maltese cross of the Chevaliers of the Blessed Sacrament; the crossed swords above an iron crown of the Ancient Legion of Saint Michael and All Angels; and the full-rigged ship pendant from triple anchors—­the decoration of the rare Spanish order of the Star of the Seven Seas.  Silence held the company as the Ambassador’s fine old hands touched one after another.  It seemed to Shirley that these baubles again bound the New World, the familiar hills of home, the Virginia shores, to the wallowing caravels of Columbus.

The Ambassador closed the silver box the better to examine the white falcon upon its lid.  Then he swung about and confronted Armitage.

“Where is he, Monsieur?” 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.