Presently one of the officers--I knew none of them save by sight--rose

and approached. He touched the flag insolently and inquired what right

it had in a public restaurant in Barscheit. Ordinarily his question

would not have been put without some justification. But he knew very

well who I was and what my rights were in this instance.

"Herr Lieutenant," said I coldly, though my cheeks were warm enough, "I

represent that flag in this country, and I am accredited with certain

privileges, as doubtless you are aware. You will do me the courtesy of

returning to your own table." I bowed.

He glared at me for a brief period, then turned on his heel. This was

the first act in the play. At the fellow's table sat Lieutenant von

Störer, Doppelkinn's nephew and heir-presumptive. He was, to speak

plainly, a rake, a spendthrift and wholly untrustworthy. He was not

ill-looking, however.

My spirits floated between anger and the fear that the officers might

ruin the dinner--which they eventually did.

Things went on smoothly for a time. The orchestra was pom-pomming the

popular airs from _Faust_. (Where the deuce was that tow-headed

Dutchman?) Laughter rose and fell; the clinkle of glass was heard;

voices called. And then Max came in, looking as cool as you please,

though I could read by his heaving chest that he had been sprinting up

back streets. The boys crowded around him, and there was much ado over

the laggard.

Unfortunately the waiter had forgotten to bring a chair for his plate.

With a genial smile on his face, Max innocently stepped over to the

officers' table and plucked forth the vacant chair. For a wonder the

officers appeared to give this action no heed, and I was secretly

gratified. It was something to be a consul, after all. But I counted

my chickens too early.

"Where are the cigars?" I asked as Max sat down complacently.

"Cigars?"--blankly. "Hang me, I've clean forgotten them!" And then,

oblivious of the probable storm that was at that moment gathering for a

downpour over his luckless head, he told us the reason of his delay.

"There was a crowd around the palace," he began. "It seems that the

Princess Hildegarde has run away, and they believe that she has ridden

toward the Pass in a closed carriage. The police are at this very

moment scouring the country in that direction. She has eloped."

"Eloped?" we all cried, being more or less familiar with the state of

affairs at the palace.

"Good-by to Doppelkinn's _Frau_!"

"Good girl!"

"She has been missing since seven o'clock, when she drove away on the

pretense of visiting her father's old steward, who is ill," went on

Max, feeling the importance of his news. "They traced her there. From

the steward's the carriage was driven south, and that's the last seen

of her. There won't be any wedding at the cathedral next

Tuesday,"--laughing.




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