“I’m afraid it rather does for my theory.  I’ll look him up when I get home.  Montana isn’t a good hiding-place any more.  But it was odd the way he acted about old Stroebel’s death.  You don’t suppose he knew him, do you?”

“It’s possible.  Poor Count von Stroebel!  Many hearts are lighter, now that he’s done for.”

“Yes; and there will be something doing in Austria, now that he’s out of the way.”

Four days passed, in which they devoted themselves to their young brother.  The papers were filled with accounts of Count von Stroebel’s death and speculations as to its effect on the future of Austria and the peace of Europe.  The Claibornes saw nothing of Armitage.  Dick asked for him in the hotel, and found that he had gone, but would return in a few days.

It was on the morning of the fourth day that Armitage appeared suddenly at the hotel as Dick and his sister waited for a carriage to carry them to their train.  He had just returned, and they met by the narrowest margin.  He walked with them to the door of the Monte Rosa.

“We are running for the King Edward, and hope for a day in London before we sail.  Perhaps we shall see you one of these days in America,” said Claiborne, with some malice, it must be confessed, for his sister’s benefit.

“That is possible; I am very fond of Washington,” responded Armitage carelessly.

“Of course you will look us up,” persisted Dick.  “I shall be at Fort Myer for a while—­and it will always be a pleasure—­”

Claiborne turned for a last word with the porter about their baggage, and Armitage stood talking to Shirley, who had already entered the carriage.

“Oh, is there any news of Count von Stroebel’s assassin?” she asked, noting the newspaper that Armitage held in his hand.

“Nothing.  It’s a very mysterious and puzzling affair.”

“It’s horrible to think such a thing possible—­he was a wonderful old man.  But very likely they will find the murderer.”

“Yes; undoubtedly.”

Then, seeing her brother beating his hands together impatiently behind Armitage’s back—­a back whose ample shoulders were splendidly silhouetted in the carriage door—­Shirley smiled in her joy of the situation, and would have prolonged it for her brother’s benefit even to the point of missing the train, if the matter had been left wholly in her hands.  It amused her to keep the conversation pitched in the most impersonal key.

“The secret police will scour Europe in pursuit of the assassin,” she observed.

“Yes,” replied Armitage gravely.

He thought her brown traveling gown, with hat and gloves to match, exceedingly becoming, and he liked the full, deep tones of her voice, and the changing light of her eyes; and a certain dimple in her left cheek—­he had assured himself that it had no counterpart on the right—­made the fate of principalities and powers seem, at the moment, an idle thing.