“Ah, the Princess Hildegarde?” said the young fellow, pushing back his hat and elevating his feet, a trick he had acquired while being reared in his native land, which was the State of Illinois, in America.  “You want to be careful.  Every one burns his fingers or singes his wings around that candle.”

“What do you know about her?” I asked.

“A little.  You see, about six months ago I discovered all regarding Hillars and his fall from grace.  It was through the Reuter agency.  Hillars got badly singed.  An elopement of some sort between him and the Princess was nipped in the bud.  He was ordered to leave the country and warned never to return, at the peril of his liberty.  A description of him is with every post on the frontier.  As for the Princess she is an interesting character.  She was educated in this country and France.  She speaks several languages.  She is headstrong and wilful, and her royal guardian is only too anxious to see her married and settled down.  She masquerades in men’s clothes when it pleases her, she can ride a horse like a trooper, she fences and shoots, she has fought two duels, and heaven alone knows what she has not done to disturb the tranquility of the Court.  For a man she loved she would be a merry comrade.  I saw her once in Paris.  She is an extraordinarily beautiful woman.  A man takes no end of risk when he concerns himself with her affairs, I can tell you.  Hillars—­Well, I suppose it’s none of my business.  He must have had an exciting time of it,” concluded the young man.

“I’ll leave you in charge for a week or so,” said I.  “What little news there is at the Houses you can cover.  I’ll take care of anything of importance that occurs abroad.  I might as well pack up and get out to-night.  A boat leaves Dover early in the morning.”

Then I picked up the third and last letter.  It was from Phyllis.  It contained the enjoyable news that the Wentworths were coming abroad, and that they would remain indefinitely at B——­, where Mr. Wentworth had been appointed charge d’affaires under the American Minister.  They were to visit the Mediterranean before coming to London.  They would be in town in October.  The mere thought of seeing Phyllis made my heart throb.

The next morning I put out from Dover.  It was a rough passage for that time of the year, and I came near being sea-sick.  A day or so in Paris brought me around, and I proceeded.  As I passed the frontier I noticed that my passports were eagerly scanned, and that I was closely scrutinized for some reason or other.

A smartly dressed officer occupied half of the carriage compartment with me.  I tried to draw him into conversation, but he proved to be untalkative; so I busied myself with the latest issue of the Paris L’Illustration.  I never glanced in the direction of the officer but what I found him staring intently at me.  This irritated me.  The incident was repeated so many times that I said: