ister from the duchy has been given his passports. Every
one concedes that trouble is likely to ensue. Baron von Rumpf--"

"Baron von Rumpf," repeated the Englishman thoughtfully.

"Yes; he is not a man to submit to accusations without making a
disagreeable defense."

"What does the duke say?"

"The duke?"

"Yes."

"His Highness has been dead these four years."

"Dead four years? So much for man and his futile dreams. Dead four
years," absently.

"What did you say, Herr?"

"I? Nothing. How did he die?"

"He was thrown from his horse and killed. But the duchess lives, and she
is worthy of her sire. Eh, Herr, there is a woman for you! She should
sit on this throne; it is hers by right. These Osians are aliens and
were forced on us."

"It seems to me, young man, that you are talking treason."

"That is my business, Herr." Johann laughed. "I am a socialist, and
occasionally harangue for the reds. And sometimes, when I am in need of
money, I find myself in the employ of the police."

The muscles of the Englishman's jaws hardened, then they relaxed. The
expression on the face of his guide was free from anything but bonhomie.

"One must live," Johann added deprecatingly.

"Yes, one must live," replied the Englishman.

"O! but I could sell some fine secrets to the Osians had they money to
pay. Ach! but what is the use? The king has no money; he is on the verge
of bankruptcy, and this pretty bit of scenery is the cause of it."

"So you are a socialist?" said the Englishman, passing over Johann's
declamatory confidences.

"Yes, Herr. All men are brothers."

"Go to!" laughed the Englishman, "you aren't even a second cousin to me.
But stay, what place is this we are passing?" indicating with his cane a
red-brick mansion which was fronted by broad English lawns and protected
from intrusion by a high iron fence.

"That is the British legation, Herr."

The Englishman stopped and stared, unconscious of the close scrutiny of
the guide. His eyes traveled up the wide flags leading to the veranda,
and he drew a picture of a square-shouldered old man tramping backward
and forward, the wind tangling his thin white hair, his hands behind his
back, his chin in his collar and at his heels a white bulldog. Rapidly
another picture came. It was an English scene. And the echo of a voice
fell on his ears. "My way and the freedom of the house and the key to
the purse; your way and a closed door while I live. You can go, b