“Yes, they are alike.  This will be Arnsberg.  But”—­mildly—­“who may say that it is not a cunning forgery?”

“Forgery!” roared the duke.  “Read this one from the late king of Jugendheit to Arnsberg, then, if you still doubt.”

Herbeck read slowly and carefully.

Then he rose and walked to the nearest window, studying the letter again in the sharper light.  Presently his hands fell behind his back and met about the paper, while he himself stared over into the royal gardens.  He remained in this attitude for some time.

“Well?” said the duke impatiently.

Herbeck returned to his chair.  “I wish that you had shown me these long ago.”

“To what end?”

“You accused the king?”

“Certainly, but he denied it.”

“In a letter?”

“Yes.  Here, read it.”

Herbeck compared the two.  “Where did you find these?”

“In Arnsberg’s desk,” returned the duke, the anger in his eyes giving place to gloomy retrospection.  “Arnsberg, my boyhood playmate, the man I loved and trusted and advanced to the highest office in my power.  Is that not the way?  Do we ever trust any one fully without being in the end deceived?  Well, dead or alive,” the duke continued, his throat swelling, “ten thousand crowns to him who brings Arnsberg to me, dead or alive.”

“He will never come back,” said Herbeck.

“Not if he is wise.  He was clever.  He sent all his fortune to Paris, so I found, and what I confiscated was nothing but his estate.  But do you believe me”—­putting a hand against his heart—­“something here tells me that some day fate will drag him back and give him into my hands?”

“You are very bitter.”

“And have I not cause?  Did not my wife die of a broken heart, and did I not become a broken man?  You do not know all, Herbeck, not quite all.  Franz also sought the hand of the Princess Sofia.  He, too, loved her, but I won.  Well, his revenge must have been sweet to him.”

“But your daughter has been restored to her own.”

“Due to your indefatigable efforts alone.  Ah, Herbeck, nothing will ever fill up the gap between, nothing will ever restore the mother.”  The duke bowed his head.

Herbeck studied him thoughtfully.

“I love my daughter and she loves me, but I don’t know what it is, I can’t explain it,” irresolutely.

“What can not your highness explain?”

“Perhaps the gap is too wide, perhaps the separation has been too long.”

Herbeck did not press the duke to be more explicit.  He opened another drawer and took forth a long hood envelope, crested and sealed.

“Your Highness, here is a letter from the prince regent of Jugendheit, formally asking the hand of the Princess Hildegarde for his nephew, Frederick, who will shortly be crowned.  My advice is to accept, to let bygones be bygones.”

“Write the prince that I respectfully decline.”