I looked at him in vast surprise.

“So, you have guessed it,” I said.

“I know Lotzen, Your Highness.”

I motioned to a chair.  “Sit down,” I said.

Then I told him the whole story—­saving only so much as concerned the Princess individually.  He was plainly pleased at my confidence—­and I learned many things from him, that afternoon, which opened my eyes concerning some of the Court officials and Ministers.

It was exactly six o’clock when Courtney was announced.  Even as he came into the room, he drew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to me.

“A copy of the certificate,” he said.

I read it very carefully.  In effect, it certified that Patrick McGuire, an Alderman of the City of New York, had, on the twenty-first day of December, 190—­, in that City, in the presence of John Edwards of said City, united in marriage Armand Dalberg, Major, U. S. Army, and Madeline Spencer, widow, of Washington, D. C.; there appearing, after due inquiry made, to be no legal impediment thereto; and the parties thereto having proven, on oath, their identity and their legal age.

“Well, I’m not a lawyer,” said I, in disgust; “but this thing sounds pretty strong.  I fancy it is about as close as I shall ever come to reading my own obituary.”

“It’s more than strong,” said Courtney:  “it’s in strict conformity with the New York law.

“But, the license,” I objected.

“None is required in New York.”

I threw up my hands.  “You saw the original certificate?” I asked.

“Yes.  The lady, herself, had gone out, but had left it with her maid.  And I have not the least doubt of its genuineness.”

“Then, we are up to Alderman Patrick McGuire,” I said.

“I cabled at noon to Washington asking the Department to obtain, immediately, full information as to his character and reputation.”

“Courtney, you’re a wonder,” I said.

“I’m glad you approve,” he answered.  “I thought it well to move at once, so the inquiry could be in New York early this morning; and, even if it took the whole day to investigate, the answer should be here by midnight at the latest.”

Just then, there was a knock on the door and a footman entered.

“For His Excellency, the American Ambassador,” he said, and handed Courtney an envelope.

“Here it is, now,” he said.  “Cosgrove has hurried it to me.”

Crossing to my desk he ran a knife under the flap and drew out a cablegram, glanced at it an instant, then, gave it to me without comment.

It was in cipher, of course; but, below it, Cosgrove had written the translation.  It read: 

“Individual named was killed last week by car at Twenty-third Street and Broadway.  Character and reputation only ordinary.  Integrity very doubtful.  A professional ward politician.”

“So,” said I.  “Exit the Alderman.  It’s a crying pity that car didn’t get in its work four months ago.”