The liveried footman took my card.

“Present it to her Highness the Princess Hildegarde,” I said, as I passed into the hall.

“Her Serene Highness has left town, I believe, Your Excellency.  Her Serene Highness the Princess Elizabeth is dining at the palace.”

“Gone?” said I.

“Yes, Your Excellency.”  He examined my card closely.  “Ah, allow me to deliver this note to you which Her Serene Highness directed me to do should you call.”

My hands shook as I accepted the missive, and the lights began to waver.  I passed out into the cold air.  Gone?  And why?  I walked back to the rooms in feverish haste.  Pembroke was still at his reading.

“Hello!  What brings you back so soon?”

“She was not at home,” I answered.  I threw my coat and hat on the sofa.  I balanced the envelope in my hand.  For some moments I hesitated to open it.  Something was wrong; if all had been well Gretchen would not have left the city.  I glanced at Pembroke.  He went on with his reading, unconcerned.  Well, the sooner it was over, the better.  I drew forth the contents and read it.

“Herr Winthrop—­Forgive the indiscretion of a Princess.  On my honor, I am sorry for having made you believe that you inspired me with the grand passion.  Folly finds plenty to do with idle minds.  It was a caprice of mine which I heartily regret.  There is nothing to forgive; there is much to forget.  However, I am under great obligations to you.  I am positive that I shall love my sister as I have never loved a human being before.  She is adorable, and I can well comprehend why you should love her deeply.  Forgive me for playing with what the French call your summer affections.  I am about to leave for Hohenphalia to prepare the way for the new sovereign.  Will you kindly destroy that one indiscreet letter which I, in the spirit of mischief, wrote you last autumn?

“The Princess Hildegarde.”

The envelope reminded me of a rusty scabbard; there was a very keen weapon within.  I lit my pipe and puffed for a while.

“Cousin,” said I, “I have a premonition that I shall not kill Prince Ernst of Wortumborg at six o’clock to-morrow morning.”

“What put that into your head?  You are not going to back down, after all, are you?”

“Decidedly not.  Something strikes me that I shall miss fire.”

“Pshaw!” exclaimed Pembroke.  “I have been thinking it over, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it would not be a bad plan to rid this world of a man like your Prince.  It’ll all come out right in the end.  You will wed the Princess Hildegarde just as sure as—­as I will not wed her sister.”  He spoke the last words rapidly, as though afraid of them.

“I shall never marry the Princess Hildegarde,” said I.  “She has gone.”

“Gone?  Where?”