“Scandal, all scandal,” said the Prince.  “Who ever heard of a broken heart outside of a romantic novel?  I see that the innkeeper has been holding your ear.  Ah, that innkeeper, that innkeeper!  Certainly some day there will come a reckoning.”

“Yes, indeed,” said I.  “Beware of him.”

“It was twenty years ago,” said the Prince.  “It is beyond the recall.  But let me proceed.  Not many years ago there was a Prince, a very bad fellow.”

“Most of them are.”

“He married a woman too good for him,” went on the Prince, as though he had not heard.

“And another is about to do likewise.”

“There was some scandal.  When the Princess was born, her father refused to believe her to be his child.  Now, it came to pass, as they say in the Bible, which I assure you is a very interesting book, that there were vague rumors immediately after the birth of Princess Hildegarde that another child had been born.”

“What!” I was half out of my chair.  “Another child?”

“Another child.  The fact that the Prince swore that when children came he would make them counterparts of their kind and loving father, lent color to the rumor that the Princess had had one spirited away to escape this threatened contamination.  And one of the nurses was missing.  Whither had she gone remained a mystery, and is still a mystery, for she never has returned.  Did she spirit away the other child, the other girl?  I say girl advisedly; if there had been a son, the mother would have retained him.  Two years after this interesting episode, the Princess died, and dying, confessed the deception.  But the curious thing is, nobody believed her.  Her mind was not strong, and it was thought to be a hallucination, this second child.  Now let me come to the present time.  Twins are generally alike; one mirrors the other; when they mature, then comes the deviation, perhaps in the color of the hair and the eyes.  Behold! here are two women, but for their hair and eyes were one.  Tell me what you know of the other.”  He bent forward with subdued eagerness.

“Do you think it possible?” I cried excitedly.

“Not only possible, but probable.  She is a Princess; at least she should be.”

Then I told him what I knew about Phyllis.

“America!  Born in America!  It cannot be.”  He was baffled.

“I have known her for eight years,” said I.  “She was born in America as certainly as I was.”

“But this likeness?  This rumor of another daughter?  Ah, there is something here I do not understand.  And this uncle of hers, this Wentworth; who is he?”

“A retired banker, very wealthy, and at present with the American ministry at your own capital.”

“To him we must go, then.”  He rose and walked the length of the room, stopped a moment at the chess table in the corner, then resumed his chair.  “You are wondering, no doubt, what it is to me, all this?”