“Such speculations are quite idle,” commented Chauvenet.  “There is no doubt whatever that Karl is dead, or we should hear of him.”

“Of course,” said the German.  “If he were not, the death of the old Emperor would have brought him to life again.”

“The same applies to the boy he carried away with him—­undoubtedly dead—­or we should hear of him.  Karl disappeared soon after his son Francis was born.  It was said—­”

“A pretty tale it is!” commented the German—­“that the child wasn’t exactly Karl’s own.  He took it quite hard—­went away to hide his shame in exile, taking his son Frederick Augustus with him.”

“He was surely mad,” remarked Chauvenet, sipping a cordial.  “He is much better dead and out of the way for the good of Austria.  Francis, as I say, is a good fellow.  We have hunted together, and I know him well.”

They fell to talking about the lost sons of royal houses—­and a goodly number there have been, even in these later centuries—­and then of the latest marriages between American women and titled foreigners.  Chauvenet was now leading the conversation; it might even have seemed to a critical listener that he was guiding it with a certain intention.

He laughed as though at the remembrance of something amusing, and held the little company while he bent over a candle to light a cigar.

“With all due respect to our American host, I must say that a title in America goes further than anywhere else in the world.  I was at Bar Harbor three years ago when the Baron von Kissel devastated that region.  He made sad havoc among the ladies that summer; the rest of us simply had no place to stand.  You remember, gentlemen,”—­and Chauvenet looked slowly around the listening circle,—­“that the unexpected arrival of the excellent Ambassador of Austria-Hungary caused the Baron to leave Bar Harbor between dark and daylight.  The story was that he got off in a sail-boat; and the next we heard of him he was masquerading under some title in San Francisco, where he proved to be a dangerous forger.  You all remember that the papers were full of his performances for a while, but he was a lucky rascal, and always disappeared at the proper psychological moment.  He had, as you may say, the cosmopolitan accent, and was the most plausible fellow alive.”

Chauvenet held his audience well in hand, for nearly every one remembered the brilliant exploits of the fraudulent baron, and all were interested in what promised to be some new information about him.  Armitage, listening intently to Chauvenet’s recital, felt his blood quicken, and his face flushed for a moment.  His cigarette case lay upon the edge of the table, and he snapped it shut and fingered it nervously as he listened.

“It’s my experience,” continued Chauvenet, “that we never meet a person once only—­there’s always a second meeting somewhere; and I was not at all surprised when I ran upon my old friend the baron in Germany last fall.”