He had the sleigh brought around.  Stahlberg was to ride my horse back to the village and return with the sleigh.  We climbed into the seat, there was a crunching of snow, a jangle of bells, and we were gliding over the white highway.  As I lay back among the robes, I tried to imagine that it was a dream, that I was still in New York, grinding away in my den, and not enacting one of the principal roles in a court drama; that I was not in love with a woman who spoke familiarly to kings and grand dukes and princes, that I was not about to create a Princess of whom few had vaguely heard and of whom but one had really known; that Phyllis and I were once more on the old friendly grounds, and that I was to go on loving her till the end of time—­till the end of time.

“You have known this sister?” asked the innkeeper.

“For many years,” said I.

And those were the only words which passed between us during that five-mile drive.  At the station I at once wired the Chancellor that the proofs had been found, and requested him to inform the King and Prince Ernst.  And then another eight hours dragged themselves out of existence.  But Gretchen was mine!

The King was dressed in a military blouse, and, save for the small cross suspended from his neck by a chain of gold, there was nothing about him to distinguish his rank.  He strode back and forth, sometimes going the whole length of the white room.  The Chancellor sat at a long mahogany table, and the Prince and Mr. Wentworth were seated at either side of him.  The innkeeper stood before the Chancellor, at the opposite side of the table.  His face might have been cut from granite, it was so set and impressive.  I leaned over the back of a chair in the rear of the room.  The King came close to me once and fixed his keen blue eyes on mine.

“Was this the fellow, Prince,” he asked, “who caused you all the trouble and anxiety?”

I felt uneasy.  My experience with Kings was not large.

“No, Your Majesty,” answered the Prince.  “The gentleman to whom you refer has departed the scene.”  The Prince caught the fire in my eye, and laughed softly.

“Ah,” said the King, carelessly.  “It is a strange story.  Proceed,” with a nod to the Chancellor.

“What is your name?” the Chancellor asked, directing his glance at the innkeeper.

The innkeeper gazed at the King for a space.  The Prince was watching him with a mocking smile.

“Hermann Breunner, Your Excellency.”

The King stood still.  He had forgotten the man, but not the name.

“Hermann Breunner,” he mused.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said the innkeeper.

“The keeper of the feudal inn,” supplemented the Prince.

The glance the innkeeper shot him was swift.  The Prince suddenly busied himself with the papers.

“Are you aware,” went on the Chancellor, who had not touched the undercurrent, “that you are guilty of a grave crime?”