“Oh, that is quite too horribly romantic, Herr Doctor!” interrupted the baroness.  “We cannot accept that version.  Let us hear the other one.”

“The second is more likely to be the true one.  Four years ago the newspapers were full of a remarkable abduction case.  A stranger—­no one knew who he was—­abducted the wife of a French officer from Dieppe.  Since then the betrayed husband has been searching all over the world for his runaway wife and her lover; and the pair at the castle are supposed to be they.”

“That certainly is the more plausible solution of the mystery.  But there is one flaw.  If the lovers fled here to Fertoeszeg to escape pursuit, the lady has chosen the very worst means to remain undiscovered.  Who would recognize them here if they went about in the ordinary manner?  The story of the veil will spread farther and farther, and will ultimately betray them to the pursuing husband.”

By this time the reverend Herr Mercatoris had got the better of his bad teeth, and was now ready to join the conversation.

“Gentlemen and ladies,” he began, “allow me to say a word about this matter, the details of which no one knows better than myself, as I have for months been in communication with the nameless gentleman at the castle.”

“What sort of communication?”

“Through the medium of a correspondence, which has been conducted in quite a peculiar manner.  The count—­we will call him so, although we are not justified in so doing, for the gentleman did not announce himself as such—­the count sends me every morning his copy of the Augsburg ‘Allgemeine Zeitung.’  Moreover, I frequently receive letters from him through Frau Schmidt; but I always have to return them as soon as I have read them.  They are not written in a man’s hand; the writing is unmistakably feminine.  The seal is never stamped; only once I noticed on it a crest with three flowers—­”

“What sort of flowers?” hastily interposed the baroness.

“I don’t know the names of them, your ladyship.”

“And what do you write about?” she asked again.

“The correspondence began by the count asking a trifling favor of me.  He complained that the dogs in the village barked so loud; then, that the children robbed the birds’ nests; then, that the night-watchman called the hour unnecessarily loud.  These complaints, however, were not made in his own name, but by another person whom he did not name.  He wrote merely:  ‘Complainant is afraid when the dogs bark.’  ’Complainant loves birds.’  ‘Complainant is made nervous by the night-watchman.’  Then he sent some money for the owners of the barking dogs, asking that the curs be shut indoors nights; and some for the children, so they would cease to rob the birds’ nests; and some for the watchman, whom he requested to shout his loudest at the other end of the village.  When I had attended to his requests, he began to send me his newspaper, which is a great favor, for I can