hould thus ascertain that some person had access to my private
papers.'

The Duke spoke with cold displeasure. He had felt a pang of jealous
suspicion when Zollern informed him of Wilhelmine's interview with the
black domino; also, he was still angry with his mistress for her stormy
exit after his refusal to show her Forstner's letter; and further, he was
greatly incensed at the plot to force him to abdicate. All these causes
wrought an iron firmness into his usually gentle voice. Wilhelmine felt
this to be a crucial moment in her life.

'It would appear that your Highness sees fit to question me in a strange
manner upon this trivial matter! I am not aware that the
Landhofmeisterin's office is concerned with the superintendence of your
Highness's private bureau,' she said haughtily.

'You know my meaning perfectly, Wilhelmine,' the Duke broke out
furiously. 'Alas! like a pack of cards built in a card-house, my
happiness, my pride, my triumph, my joy in my new palace, come falling
about my head! How sad, how futile a thing is earthly joy!' He turned
away, and bent to stroke Melac's head. The good beast had approached in
seeming anxiety upon hearing the Duke's distressed voice.

Wilhelmine looked at his Highness for a moment in silence, and her face
softened. After all, she loved Eberhard Ludwig, and in spite of her
overweening prosperity, coupled with the world-hardness which marred her,
there lingered something of tenderness in her love. Then, too, she was a
consummate actress, and a being gifted with the womanly genius for
charming, and therein lies sympathy. It is when this sympathetic spark is
killed by the terrible blight of over-prosperity, that the deterioration
of a woman takes place. Not all in a day, but gradually, the poison
works: the first stage signalised by a cruel hardness to those they
love; then an entire incapacity for tenderness; ultimately the hideous
blight falls on the woman's charm, her voice, her face, her laugh, the
essence of her being. God knows the tragedy of it; God alone can gauge
the agony inflicted by the world-hardened women upon the hearts of those
who love them; and God Himself punishes eventually, for: 'The mills of
God grind slow, but they grind exceeding sure.'

Still in Wilhelmine there lingered a little tenderness for Eberhard
Ludwig, and this taught her a surer way to her own safety than ever her
brain could have shown her. She came to him and, laying her hand on his
shoulde