I have always kept by me as many books and pamphlets on foreign tongues as I can collect, this being my occasional hobby, and since I guessed that the writer of the letter was pretty obviously German I turned up an index and discovered that “München” was Munich, in Bavaria. I certainly knew no one there at all, let alone a Gräfin, or Countess; for that matter I hardly knew any Germans, had never been in Germany, and had no acquaintance with the language beyond a few idle hours with a grammar some years before.

However, there was an obvious way of solving the mystery, so I took myself off to Wine Office Court and looked up William Greig & Sons. I half expected they would send me about my business, but no; there was as much bowing and scraping and “Pray to step this way, sir” as if I had been a royal duke, which deepened my mystification. A young Mr Greig smoothed me into a chair in his office; he was an oily, rather sporty-looking bargee with a very smart blue cutaway and a large lick of black hair—not at all the City lawyer type. When I presented my letter and demanded to know what it was all about, he gave me a knowing grin.

“Why, all in order, my dear sir,” says he. “A draft for £500 to be issued to you, on receipt, with proof of identity—well, we need not fret on that score, hey? Captain Flashman is well enough known, I think, ha-ha. We all remember your famous exploits in China—”

“Afghanistan,” says I.

“To be sure it was. The draft negotiable with the Bank of England. Yes, all in perfect order, sir.”

“But who the devil is she?”

“Who is who, my dear sir?”

“This Gräfin what’s-her-name—Landsfeld?”

His smile vanished in bewilderment.

“I don’t follow,” says he, scratching a black whisker. “You cannot mean that you don’t have the lady’s acquaintance? Why, her man writes to you here….”

“I’ve never heard of her,” says I, “to my knowledge.”

“Well,” says he, giving me an odd look. “This is dam—most odd, you know. My dear sir, are you sure? Quite apart from this letter, which seems to suggest a most, ah…cordial regard, well, I had not thought there was a man in England who had not heard of the beauteous Countess of Landsfeld.”

“Well, you’re looking at one now,” says I.

“I can’t believe it,” cries he. “What, never heard of the Queen of Hearts? La Belle Espagnole? The monarch, in all but name, of the Kingdom of Bavaria? My dear sir, all the world knows Donna Maria de—what is it again?” and he rummaged among some papers—“aye, here it is ‘Donna Maria de Dolores de los Montez, Countess of Landsfeld.’ Come, come, sir, surely now….

At first the name meant nothing, and then it broke on me.