know? Forgive me, Carl," as a look of annoyance
clouded von Sternburg's face, "but every proof is important to me."

"I was living at our Schloss--at my father's. I saw Maximilian nearly
every day. We were together constantly."

"Extraordinary!" murmured Friedrich. "Did this wonderful change extend
to his money affairs?"

"Well, you know Max could use any amount of money, and you couldn't
expect him to become an economist at one shot. Then he always spent a
great deal on his wife; he was continually sending to Paris for
something for her."

Friedrich scowled thoughtfully.

"Still he paid all his old debts out of his Aunt Brigitta's legacy, and
didn't make any new ones."

"That means more for Max than it would for most people."

"He told me that he could not have afforded to keep up the Schloss
without your help, but aside from the expenses of the house he had
plenty, plenty."

"And Hilda?"

"Oh, the Baroness is a millionaire. Her aunt in Heidelberg died more
than a year ago and left her all her fortune. Max never got a pfennig
of it though, even in a Christmas-gift."

There flashed across Friedrich's mental view his cabin, differing in no
respect from those of the "mountain whites," his neighbors. Then a
picture of a little figure with white neck and arms shining through the
filmy blackness of her gown, shrinking into an arm-chair, and saying,
"I always had enough for my needs, even when----"

"Was he kind to her?"

"Kind? I tell you he loved her with the most unselfish devotion. It was
his dearest wish to live a life so correct that she might be proud of
him. You couldn't expect more than that, could you?"

"Not from Maximilian," admitted von Rittenheim. "Perhaps the very
intensity of his love may have made him exacting towards her?"

"My dear fellow, she paid no more attention to him and his wishes than
if he were the lowest servant on the estate. She had a constant flock
of men hanging about, with whom she flirted desperately, entirely
regardless of Max's feelings. I must say he bore it like an angel! Why,
if my wife--well, never mind, I haven't one yet. She made herself
conspicuous with Moller--Colonel Moller, you know, before von Hatfeldt
killed himself on her account."

"The Graf's son?" Friedrich was startled.

"The second son. He took poison and told his father why. The old man
went to Max about it."

"Poor old Max!"

"What could he do? When he charged her with it there's nothing so swee