Herbeck read the letter in part to the chief, who jotted down the words, repeating aloud in a kind of mutter:  “A mountaineer, a vintner, a carter, a butcher, and a baker.  You will give me their descriptions, your Excellency?”

Herbeck read the postscript.

“But you don’t tell him who—­”

“Why should he know?” said Herbeck, glancing shrewdly at the duke.  “His ignorance will be all the better for the plot.”

“Then this is big game, your Highness?” asked the chief.

“Big game.”

“One is as big and powerful as a Carpathian bear.  Look out,” warned Herbeck.

“And he is?”

“The mountaineer.”

“And the vintner?”

“Oh, he is a little fellow, and hasn’t grown his bite yet,” said Herbeck dryly.

The duke laughed again.  It would be as good as a play.

“I thank you, Herbeck.  You have neatly arranged a fine comedy.  I do not think so clearly as I used to.  When the arrest is made, give it as much publicity as possible.  Take a squad of soldiers; it will give it a military look.  Will you be on the field this afternoon?”

“No, your highness,” touching the papers which strewed his desk; “this will keep me busy well into evening.”

The duke waved his hand cheerfully and left the cabinet.

“Your excellency, then, really leaves me to work in the dark?” asked the chief uneasily.

“Yes,” tearing up the note.  “But you will not be in the dark long after you have arrested these persons.  Begin with the mountaineer and the vintner; the others do not matter so much.”  Then Herbeck laughed.  The chief raised his head.  He had not heard his excellency laugh like that in many moons.  “Report to me your progress.  Unfortunately my informant does not state just where these fellows are to be found.”

“That is my business, your Excellency.”

“Good luck to you!” responded Herbeck, with a gesture of dismissal.

When her highness came in from her morning’s ride she found the duke waiting in her apartments.

“Why, father,” kissing him, “what brings you here?”

“A little idea I have in mind.”  He drew her down to the arm of the chair.  “We all have our little day-dreams.”

“Who does not, father?” She slid her arm round his neck.  She was full of affection for this kindly parent.

“But there are those of us who must not accept day-dreams as realities; for then there will be heartaches and futile longings.”

“You are warning me.  About what, father?” There was a little stab in her heart.

“Herr Carmichael is a fine fellow, brave, witty, shrewd.  If all Americans are like him, America will soon become a force in the world.  I have taken a fancy to him; and you know what they say of your father—­no formality with those whom he likes.  Humanly, I am right; but in the virtue of everyday events in court life, I am wrong.”