ienna.

At two o'clock he set out for the lower town. On the way he picked up
odd ends of news. The king was rapidly sinking; he had suffered another
stroke, and was now without voice. There was unusual activity in
the barracks. The students of the university were committing mild
depredations, such as building bonfires, holding flambeau processions,
and breaking windows which contained the photographs of Prince Frederick
of Carnavia, who, strangely enough, was still wrapt in obscurity. When
Maurice entered the Grand Hotel he looked casually among the porters,
but the round-faced one was missing. He approached the desk. The
proprietor did not recognize him.

"No, my friend," said Maurice, affably, as a visitors' book was pushed
forward, "I am not going to sign. Instead, I wish to ask a favor. A week
ago a party of the king's troopers met upstairs."

The proprietor showed signs of returning memory, together with a strange
agitation.

"There was a slight disturbance," went on Maurice, still using the
affable tone. "Herr--ah--Hamilton, I believe--"

The proprietor grew limp and yellow. "I--I do not know where he is."

"I do," replied Maurice. "Don't you recognize me? Have I changed so
since I came here to doctor a sprained ankle?"

"You?--Before God, Herr, I was helpless; I had nothing to do with it!"
terrified at the peculiar smile of the victim.

"The key to this gentleman's room," was the demand.

"I--"

"The key, and be quick about it."

The key came forth. "You will say nothing, Herr; it would ruin my
business. It was a police affair."

"Has any one been in this room since?"

"No, Herr; the key has been in my pocket."

"Where is the porter who brought me here?"

"He was not a porter; he was with the police."

Maurice passed up the stairs. He found the room in disorder, but a
disorder rather familiar to his eyes. He had been the cause of most of
it. Here was where he broke the baron's arm and thumped three others on
the head. It had been a good fight. Here was a hole in the wall where
one of the empty revolvers had gone--missing the Colonel's head by an
inch.

There was a smudge on the carpet made by the falling candles. He saw
Fitzgerald's pipe and picked it up. No; the chamber maid had not yet
been there. He went over to the bed, stared at it and shrugged. He
raised the mattress. There was the gun case. He drew it forth and took
out the gun, not, however, without a twist of his nerves.

Four mi