The earth had swallowed up Nikky Larisch.

"I hope you are satisfied," said the King grimly, from behind him. "It
was your arrangement."

"It was my hope, sire," replied the Chancellor dryly.

The necessity for work brought the King the strength to do it. Mettlich
remained with him. Boxes were brought from vaults, unlocked and
examined. Secretaries came and went. At eight o'clock a frugal dinner
was spread in the study, and they ate it almost literally over state
documents.

On and on, until midnight or thereabouts. Then they stopped. The thing
was arranged. Nothing was left now but to carry the word to Karl.

Two things were necessary: Haste. The King, having determined it, would
lose no time. And dignity. The granddaughter of the King must be offered
with ceremony. No ordinary King's messenger, then, but some dignitary of
the Court.

To this emergency Mettlich rose like the doughty old warrior and
statesman that he was. "If you are willing, sire," he said, as he rose,
"I will go myself."

"When?"

"Since it must be done, the sooner the better. To-night, sire."

The King smiled. "You were always impatient!" he commented. But he
looked almost wistfully at the sturdy and competent old figure before
him. Thus was he, not so long ago. Cold nights and spring storms had
had no terrors for him. And something else he felt, although he said
nothing--the stress of a situation which would send his Chancellor out
at midnight, into a driving storm, to secure Karl's support. Things must
be bad indeed!

"To the capital?" he asked.

"Not so far. Karl is hunting. He is at Wedeling." He went almost
immediately, and the King summoned his valets, and was got to bed. But
long after the automobile containing Mettlich and two secret agents was
on the road toward the mountains, he tossed on his narrow bed. To what
straits had they come indeed! He closed his eyes wearily. Something had
gone out of his life. He did not realize at first what it was. When he
did, he smiled his old grim smile in the darkness.

He had lost a foe. More than anything perhaps, he had dearly loved a
foe.

CHAPTER XVI. ON THE MOUNTAIN ROAD

The low gray car which carried the Chancellor was on its way through the
mountains. It moved deliberately, for two reasons. First, the Chancellor
was afraid of motors. He had a horseman's hatred and fear of machines.
Second, he was not of a mind to rouse King Karl from a night's sleep,
even to bring the ha