I became accessory before the fact, as the lawyers say.  Flight with a band of Magyar Gipsies; weary days in the mountains, with detachments of troops scouring the whole duchy.  Finally I escaped.  A fortune was offered for the immediate return of the child.  At the time I believed that it was an abduction for ransom.  But no one ever came forward for the reward.  There was a price on my head when it was known that I had fled.”  Grumbach stared into his pipe without seeing anything.

“And no one ever came for the reward?  That is strange.  Was immunity promised?” asked Carmichael.

“It was inferred, but not literally promised.”

“Fear kept them away.”

“Perhaps.  And there is Arnsberg.”

“Was he guilty?”

“I never saw his hand anywhere.”

“So this is the story!  Well, when a man’s in love he is, more or less, in the clutch of temporary insanity.”  Carmichael’s tone wasn’t exactly cheery.

“Insanity!  Then you do not judge me harshly?”

“No, Hans.  I’ve a wild streak in me also.  But what I can’t understand is why you return and put your head in the lion’s mouth.  The police will stumble on something.  I tell you frankly that if you are arrested I could do little or nothing for you.  The United States protects only harmless political outcasts.  Yours is a crime such as nullifies your citizenship, and any government would be compelled, according to the terms of treaty, to send you back here, if the demand was made for your extradition.”

“I know all that,” Grumbach replied, dumping the ash into his palm and casting it into the paper-basket.

“I suppose that when conscience drives we must go on.  But the princess has been found.  The best thing you can do is to put your passports into immediate use and return to the States.  You can do no good here.”

“Maybe.”  Grumbach refilled his pipe, lighted it, and without saying more went out and down into the street.

Carmichael watched him through the window.  Cloud after cloud of smoke ran wavering behind the exile.  He was smoking like one deeply perturbed.

“He’s a queer codger, and it’s a queer story.  I don’t believe I have heard it all, either.  What was he really hunting for with those glasses?  I give it up.”

He was not angry with Grumbach; rather he seemed to be drawn to him more closely than ever.  Mad with love.  That was the phrase.  He conned it over and over; mad with love.  That excused many things.  How strangely the chess-men were moved!  Had Grumbach not assisted in the abduction, her highness would in all probability have grown up as other princesses, artificial, cold, reserved, seldom touched by the fires of animated thought or action.  In fact, had things been otherwise, he never would have ridden with her highness in the freshness of the morning—­or fallen in love with her.  By rights he ought to curse Grumbach; but for him he would still be captain of his heart.  Mad with love!  There was no doubt of it.  And the phrase rang in his ear for some time.