convincing him, at the same time, of the
necessity that existed for secrecy. This precaution he promised most
religiously to observe. After that, I returned to my own abode to await
the telegram from my father. At last it came. It was worded as follows:
"Max left here more than an hour ago, having said good-bye to us prior
to leaving for the Continent." I immediately sat down and scribbled a
note to Scotland Yard, informing them of the discovery I had made. Then,
when I had written another to my hostess of that evening, asking her to
excuse me not being present at her dinner, on account of urgent private
trouble, I took a hansom and drove to Waterloo. Instantly on my arrival
at home I gave my father and mother a full account of all that had
occurred. They, like myself, were overwhelmed by the suddenness of the
catastrophe, and could give me no further information than that Max,
after bidding them good-bye, had driven to Eastleigh, in order to catch,
so they supposed, a train either for London or Southampton. I inquired
at the station, but in vain. The station-master had not seen him, nor
could he tell by what train he would have been likely to have travelled.

"There was the 6.50 up to town, your Royal Highness," he said, "and the
6.45 down to Southampton. He might have taken either."

Feeling sure that he would have not returned to London, I took the next
train to Southampton and made inquiries there. But my efforts were in
vain. No one seemed to have seen a person answering to his description.
When next morning I called at the various shipping offices I was equally
unsuccessful. Almost despairing, I applied for leave and remained at
Southampton, day by day, for a week, watching the various boats that
left for America and South Africa. So far as I could discover, however,
Max was not on board any one of them. At last, wearied with waiting, and
hopeless of hearing anything of him, I returned to town, calling _en
route_ at Rendlehurst to inform my father and mother of my ill-success.

From that moment, for many years, nothing was heard of poor ill-fated
Max of Pannonia.

CHAPTER VII.

And now a word to preface the story of Max's adventures as set forth by
himself--from the time he wrote the famous letter to me.

Headstrong and wilful as he undoubtedly was, Max was the possessor of a
habit which would not be supposed to agree in any way with his other
characteristics. In our school days, prompted by a tutor w