Meantime a telegram had preceded a lengthy letter into the department of the police, both directed to Herr Bauer, who in reality was James Githens, of Scotland Yard.  The telegram had said:  “Why do you say M. is there?  He is in London.  Explain.  Letter to-morrow.”  The letter had come, and Mr. Githens, as well as the local police office, was “bowled over,” to express it in Scotland Yard English.  He had wired his employers that “M. is still in Innsbruck.  Cannot be in London.”  It was very clearly set forth in the letter that Roxbury Medcroft was in London, and that Mr. Githens, of Scotland Yard, had betrayed his trust.  He was virtually charged with playing into the hands of the enemy,—­“selling out,” as it were.  It readily may be expected that Mr. Githens was accused of being in the employ of the “opposition.”  Moreover, it is but reasonable to assume that he took vigorous steps at once to vindicate himself:  which accounts for the woe that lurked close behind the heels of a man named Brock.

Brock and Constance had ridden off that afternoon to visit the historic Schloss Ambras.  The great castle had been saved for the very last of their explorations; he had just been able to secure permission to visit that part of the Duke’s residence open on certain occasions to the curious public.  Edith had declined to accompany them.  In the first place, she was expecting the all-important message from her husband—­she was “on nettles,” to quote her plaintive eagerness; in the second place, she realised that as the crisis was at hand in the affairs of Brock and Constance, her presence was not a necessary adjunct.  Not only was she expecting a message from Roxbury, but eagerly anticipating an outburst of joyous news from the two who had, it seemed, very gladly left her behind.

The young couple, returning by the lower road from the Schloss, came to a resting place at a little eating-house and garden on the hillside overlooking the river Inn.  It is a quiet, demure, unfrequented place among the crags, standing in from the white roadway a hundred feet or more, clouded by gorgeous trees and sombre cliffs.  It was to this charming, romantic retreat that Brock led his fair, now tremulous inamorata.  She, too, knew that the hour for decision had come; it was in the air, in the glint of his eyes, in the leaping of her heart.  And she knew what she would say to him, and what they would say to the world a few hours hence.  The mountains seemed to have lost their splendid frown; they were beaming down upon her, tenderly caressing instead of bleak and foreboding as they always had been before.

A rosy-cheeked girl came into the garden to serve them.  Swift, cool breezes were scurrying down the valley, bearing in their wake the soft rain clouds that were soon to drench the earth and then radiantly pass on.  They were quite alone, seated in the shelter of a wide, overhanging portico.  A soft, green darkness was creeping over the mountainside, pregnant with smell of the shower.