“But what proof have you that she is not?  What proof, I say?”

“Would there be two lockets, Highness?”

“More proof than this will be needed.  Produce it.  Prolong this agony of doubt not another instant.”

“Speak,” said Hans to the Gipsy, who was viewing the drama with the nonchalance of a spectator rather than a participant.

“Highness,” said the Gipsy, bowing, “he speaks truly.  He came with us.  For fear that the little highness might be recognized as we traveled, we changed her clothes.  He took them, together with the locket.  One day the soldiers appeared in the distance.  We all fled.  We lost the little highness, and none of us ever knew what became of her.  She wore the costume of my own children.”

“We shall produce that in time,” said Von Arnsberg.

“Damnable wretch!” said the duke, addressing the Gipsy.

The other shrugged.  He had been promised immunity; that was all he cared about, unless it was the bag of silver and gold this old clock-mender had given him a few hours gone.

“I am summoning her highness,” said the duke, as he struck the bell.

“And, Highness,” added Grumbach, “despatch some one for Gretchen, who lives at number forty the Krumerweg.”

“The goose-girl?  What does she know?  Ah, I remember.  She is even now with her highness.  I shall send for them both.”

Gretchen?  Carmichael’s bewilderment increased.  What place had the goose-girl in this tragedy?

“Now, while we are waiting,” resumed the duke, his agitation somewhat under control, “the proof, the definite proof!”

“Her highness stumbled one night,” said Hans, “and fell upon the fire.  I snatched her back, but not before her left arm was badly burned.”

The Gipsy nodded.  “I saw it, Highness.”

And that was why Grumbach went to the military ball with opera-glasses!  Carmichael was round-eyed.  But Gretchen?

“The Princess Hildegarde has no scar upon either arm,” continued Grumbach.  “I have seen them.  They are without a single flaw.”

“More than that,” reiterated the duke.  “That is not enough.”

They became silent.  Now and then one or the other stirred.  The duke never took his eyes off the door through which her highness would enter.

She came in presently, tender with mercy, an arm supporting Gretchen, who was red-eyed and white.

“You sent for us, father?”

How the word pierced the duke’s heart!  “Yes, my child,” he answered; for it mattered not who she was or whither she had come, he had grown to love her.

“I am sorry you sent for Gretchen,” said Hildegarde.  “She is ill.”

Gretchen sighed.  To her the faces of the men were indistinct.  And, besides, she was without interest, listless, drooped.

“My child, will you roll up your left sleeve?” said the duke.

“My sleeve?” Hildegarde thoughtfully looked round.  Roll up her sleeve?  What possessed her father?