Mark sat stunned.  It was with difficulty that he could speak.  He saw a tragedy that Saunders could not see.  Then he broke out: 

“But you?  How do you know?”

“It’s my business to know—­the business you don’t like.  I was instructed to watch her.  She got out of Europe before certain people could reach her—­”

“But,” objected Mark, “how do I know you are telling the truth?”

Saunders dug into his pocket and pulled out a postal card.  “This will tell you—­or the photograph on it will.”

The picture was a foreign one, bearing the strange characters of a Slavic language, such a card as is sold in every country with portraits of reigning or distinguished personages.  The facsimile signature, in a bold feminine hand across the lower part of the picture, was “Carlotta.”

“Do you believe me now, Griffin?” asked Saunders, with some sympathy showing on his face, which fact alone saved Mark from smashing it.

“I am afraid I must, Saunders.  You had better tell me the whole of this.”

“I will; for, as I have sized up the situation, it is best that I should.  The Duchess ran away.  She was supposed to be at San Sebastian with a trusted attendant.  The attendant was evidently not to be trusted, for she disappeared, too.  They were traced to London, then to Madeira, then to a North German Lloyd liner which stopped at the island on its way to America.  Then to Boston.  Then to Sihasset.”

“This attendant you spoke of—­what was she like?”

Saunders gave the description:  “Dark, fairly stout, white hair, bad English, piercing black eyes, sixty years old, upper lip showing a growth of hair, slight wart on the right side of the nose.”

“Madam Neuville!”

“So she’s here with her, is she?  I suspected that, but I have never seen the old lady.”

“She doesn’t go out much.”

“Are you satisfied now, Mr. Griffin?”

“As to identity, yes.  Now, I will ask the questions.  I have a right, haven’t I, Saunders?”

Saunders nodded.

“Why did the Duchess run away?”

Saunders hesitated before he answered.  “I hate to tell you that.  Don’t ask.”

“But I do ask.”

“Well, you may have a right to know.  There was a man, that’s why.”

Mark wondered at his own self-control.

“Who was he?”

“An army officer, attached to the Italian embassy at her father’s court.  But, look here, Griffin, there was no scandal about it.  She just fell in love with him, that’s all.  I was here watching for him.  I thought, for a while, that you might be the man, though the descriptions did not tally.  I was taking no chances.  If I saw him, my business was to telegraph to a certain Ministry at Washington; that was all.”

“And they would—­”