“No, thank God! he is out of the way.  He was sane enough to take himself off and die.”

“But his ghost walks.  Not a year ago we heard of him; and he had a son who chose his father’s exile.  What if Charles Louis, who is without heirs, should die and Karl or his son—­”

“In the providence of God they are dead.  Impostors gain a little brief notoriety by pretending to be the lost Karl or his son Frederick Augustus; but Von Stroebel satisfied himself that Karl was dead.  I am quite sure of it.  You know dear Stroebel had a genius for gaining information.”

“I have heard as much,” and Shirley and the Baron smiled at Judge Claiborne’s tone.

The storm was diminishing and Shirley grew more tranquil.  Soon the Ambassador would leave and she would send Armitage away; but the mention of Stroebel’s name rang oddly in her ears, and the curious way in which Armitage and Chauvenet had come into her life awoke new and anxious questions.

“Count von Stroebel was not a democrat, at any rate,” she said.  “He believed in the divine right and all that.”

“So do I, Miss Claiborne.  It’s all we’ve got to stand on!”

“But suppose a democratic prince were to fall heir to one of the European thrones, insist on giving his crown to the poor and taking his oath in a frock coat, upsetting the old order entirely—­”

“He would be a fool, and the people would drag him to the block in a week,” declared the Baron vigorously.

They pursued the subject in lighter vein a few minutes longer, then the Baron rose.  Judge Claiborne summoned the waiting carriage from the stable, and the Baron drove home.

“I ought to work for an hour on that Danish claims matter,” remarked the Judge, glancing toward his curtained den.

“You will do nothing of the kind!  Night work is not permitted in the valley.”

“Thank you!  I hoped you would say that, Shirley.  I believe I am tired; and now if you will find a magazine for me, I’ll go to bed.  Ring for Thomas to close the house.”

“I have a few notes to write; they’ll take only a minute, and I’ll write them here.”

She heard her father’s door close, listened to be quite sure that the house was quiet, and threw back the curtains.  Armitage stepped out into the library.

“You must go—­you must go!” she whispered with deep tensity.

“Yes; I must go.  You have been kind—­you are most generous—­”

But she went before him to the hall, waited, listened, for one instant; then threw open the outer door and bade him go.  The rain dripped heavily from the eaves, and the cool breath of the freshened air was sweet and stimulating.  She was immensely relieved to have him out of the house, but he lingered on the veranda, staring helplessly about.

“I shall go home,” he said, but so unsteadily that she looked at him quickly.  He carried the cloak flung over his shoulder and in readjusting it dropped it to the floor, and she saw in the light of the door lamps that his arm hung limp at his side and the gray cloth of his sleeve was heavy and dark with blood.  With a quick gesture she stooped and picked up the cloak.