Rudi nodded. “Strip,” says he to me, and de Gautet bundled up my gear as I tore it off. He knotted it all in my cloak—I had just sense enough to remember my pistols, and thrust them hurriedly under a cushion—and then I was standing there, mother-naked, while Detchard listened with his ear to the panels of the communicating door.

“Lucky little Duchess Irma,” murmurs Rudi, and I saw him grinning at me. “Let’s hope the real prince is as royally endowed.” He tipped me a mock salute, very debonair. “Bonne chance, your highness. Ready, de Gautet?”

Together they went to the communicating door, Rudi nodded, and in a moment they had opened it and slipped through, with Detchard behind them. There was a second in which the murmur of voices sounded louder, and then the door closed, and I was left, stark in a royal dressing-room in a German mansion, all alone and palpitating. For a moment there wasn’t a sound, and then something tumbled next door. Minutes passed, a door was shut somewhere, there was a muttering of voices in the corridor that sent me scampering behind the curtains, and then silence. Several minutes passed and my teeth began to chatter with cold and apprehension. At last I peeped out, to see if there wasn’t a gown or something to wrap up in: there was plenty of furniture in the room, the main article being an enormous decorated commode—it struck me as my usual luck that whereas most royal successions lead to a throne, mine had got me nothing so far but a thunderbox—but devil a rag of clothing beyond a couple of towels. So I wrapped up in the curtain as well as I could, and waited fearfully.

Then the door opened, and Detchard’s voice said softly:

“Wo sind sie?”

I poked my head out. He was carrying a big silk dressing-gown, thank God, and I grabbed at it, shuddering.

“His highness has left the house,” says he. “Everything is in train. Is all well with you?”

“Oh, splendid—except that I’m almost frozen to death. Isn’t there a fire, in God’s name,”

“There is a stove in the bedroom,” says he, and ushered me through to a splendid apartment, thickly-carpeted, with a huge four-poster bed richly-curtained, and a fine stove with its doors thrown wide to warm the room. While I thawed out Detchard stood with his grey head cocked, considering me and toying with his seals.

“It is truly amazing,” says he, at last. “I did not believe it—but you are the same man. Wonderful!”

“Well, I hope the other one’s warmer than I am. Haven’t you any brandy?”

He poured me a glass, very carefully, and watched me gulp it down.