“The archplotter of this damnable conspiracy?” The duke’s eyes became alive, his face, his whole body.  Every beat of his heart cried out for vengeance.  “Who is he?  Tell me!  Give him to me, man, and all of you shall go free.  Give him into these hands.  His name!” The duke’s hands worked convulsively as if they were already round the throat of this unseen, implacable enemy.  He was terrible in this moment.

The Gipsy produced a letter.  It had to be held carefully, as it was old and tattered.  The duke read it.  Beyond that it made the original offer it was worthless.  The handwriting was palpably disguised.  The duke flung the missive to the floor.

“Fool!  Is that all you have?  Tell me what you know, man, or I shall have you shot in the morning, immunity or no immunity!  Quick!”

“Highness,” said the Gipsy, thoroughly alarmed, “this is how it happened.  My band was staying at the time in Dreiberg.  We told fortunes and exhibited an Italian puppet-show.  The letter came first.  I was poor and sometimes desperate.  I was to take her away and leave her with strange people.”

“Ah!” interrupted the duke, with despairing gesture toward Grumbach, “why did you not leave us all in peace?”

“Highness, a great wrong has been done, and God brought me here to right it.”

“You are a brave man,” darkly.

“I am in your hands, Highness,” sturdily.  “In a mad moment I committed a crime.  I shall abide by whatever punishment you may inflict.”

“Continue,” said the duke to the Gipsy.

“Well, Highness, I would not accept till I had talked personally with him.  He came at last.  His face was hidden and his voice muffled.  But this I saw; when he gave me the first half of the money I was certain I should know him again.”

“How?”

“By his little finger, Highness.”

“His little finger?” Von Arnsberg repeated.  The two women, large-eyed and bewildered, clung to each other’s hand tensely.  These were heart-breaking times.  Gretchen’s mind, however, absorbed nothing, neither the words nor the picture.  Her thoughts revolved round one thing; if she were a princess she could be happy.  But the other, from under whose feet all tangible substances seemed to be giving way, she was possessed by two thoughts which surged in her brain like combatants.  If not a princess, what was she?  If not a princess, she was free.  She stole a swift glance at Carmichael, who seemed far removed from the heart of this black business; and had he been looking at her he would have seen the gates opening into Eden.

“What was this little finger like?” asked the duke, shuddering.

“One time it had been cut or mangled.”

“The man was tall?”

“Yes, Highness.”

The duke silently toyed with the little yellow shoes.  Suddenly he laughed; but it was the terrible laughter of a madman.  There were death and desolation in it.