seal, and deliver the title-deeds of Schloss Lebenstein.  My brother-in-law paid the purchase-money into the Count’s own hands, by cheque, crossed on a first-class London firm where the Count kept an account to his high well-born order.  Then he went away with the proud knowledge that he was owner of Schloss Lebenstein.  And what to me was more important still, I received next morning by post a cheque for the five per cent, unfortunately drawn, by some misapprehension, to my order on the self-same bankers, and with the Count’s signature.  He explained in the accompanying note that the matter being now quite satisfactorily concluded, he saw no reason of delicacy why the amount he had promised should not be paid to me forthwith direct in money.

I cashed the cheque at once, and said nothing about the affair, not even to Isabel.  My experience is that women are not to be trusted with intricate matters of commission and brokerage.

Though it was now late in March, and the House was sitting, Charles insisted that we must all run over at once to take possession of our magnificent Tyrolese castle.  Amelia was almost equally burning with eagerness.  She gave herself the airs of a Countess already.  We took the Orient Express as far as Munich; then the Brenner to Meran, and put up for the night at the Erzherzog Johann.  Though we had telegraphed our arrival, and expected some fuss, there was no demonstration.  Next morning we drove out in state to the schloss, to enter into enjoyment of our vines and fig-trees.

We were met at the door by the surly steward.  “I shall dismiss that man,” Charles muttered, as Lord of Lebenstein.  “He’s too sour-looking for my taste.  Never saw such a brute.  Not a smile of welcome!”

He mounted the steps.  The surly man stepped forward and murmured a few morose words in German.  Charles brushed him aside and strode on.  Then there followed a curious scene of mutual misunderstanding.  The surly man called lustily for his servants to eject us.  It was some time before we began to catch at the truth.  The surly man was the real Graf von Lebenstein.

And the Count with the moustache?  It dawned upon us now.  Colonel Clay again!  More audacious than ever!

Bit by bit it all came out.  He had ridden behind us the first day we viewed the place, and, giving himself out to the servants as one of our party, had joined us in the reception-room.  We asked the real Count why he had spoken to the intruder.  The Count explained in French that the man with the moustache had introduced my brother-in-law as the great South African millionaire, while he described himself as our courier and interpreter.  As such he had had frequent interviews with the real Graf and his lawyers in Meran, and had driven almost daily across to the castle.  The owner of the estate had named one price from the first, and had stuck to it manfully.  He stuck to it still; and if Sir Charles chose to buy Schloss Lebenstein over again he was welcome to have it.  How the London lawyers had been duped the Count had not really the slightest idea.  He regretted the incident, and (coldly) wished us a very good morning.