“What!  Ride a horse with an umbrella over you?  Where is your sense of romance?”

“Romance is all well enough,” said he, “when your stomach is full and your hide is dry.  If you can call this romance, this five-mile ride through rain and snow, you are gifted with a wonderful imagination.”

“It is beautiful here in the summer,” defensively.

“I wish you had waited till then, or brought a mackintosh.  Your Princess would have kept.”  He shoved his head deeper into his collar, and began to laugh.  “This is the discomfort man will go through for love.  If she is a true woman she will feed you first and explain afterward.  But, supposing she is not here?”

“Where else can she be?” I asked.

“The world is very large—­when a woman runs away from you.”

This set me thinking.  If she shouldn’t be there!  I set my teeth and gave the horse a cut, sending him into a gallop, which I forced him to maintain till the end.  At length we turned into the roadway.  A man I had never seen before came out.

“Where is the innkeeper?” I asked, my heart sinking.

“He is not here,” was the answer,

“Is Her Highness the Princess Hildegarde—­”

“Her Highness?” he cried, in astonishment.  “She has never been here.  This is an inn; the castle is in the village.”

“How long have you been here?” asked Pembroke.

“Two weeks, Your Highness.”  Doubtless he thought us to be high personages to be inquiring for the Princess.

“Is Stahlberg here?” I asked.

“He is visiting relatives in Coberg,” was the answer.

“Do you know where Her Highness is?”

“No.”  It occurred to me that his voice had taken to sullen tones.

“When will the innkeeper be back?”

The fellow shrugged his shoulders.  “I cannot say, Your Highness.  The inn is not open for guests till March.”

“Jack,” said Pembroke in English, “it is evident that this fellow has been instructed to be close-lipped.  Let us return to the village.  The castle is left.”  He threw some coins to the servant and they rattled along the porch.  “Come.”  And we wheeled and trotted away.

I cannot tell how great was my disappointment, nor what I did or said.  The ride back to the village was a dreary affair so far as conversation went.  At the castle we found not a soul.

“It is as I expected,” said Pembroke.  “Remember that Her Highness is accustomed to luxury, and that it is not likely for her to spend her winter in such a deserted place.  You’re a newspaper man; you ought to be full of resources.  Why don’t you telegraph to all the news agencies and make inquiries?  She is a personage, and it will not be difficult to find her if you go at it the right way.”