Arthur flung himself into the room pale, hollow-eyed, the picture of despair.

“Any news?” he cried, hopelessly enough, for he had seen my face.

“None,” I answered.

“Anything from Feurgeres?”

“Not yet.”

“Tell me again ­where did you telegraph him?”

“Dover, Calais, Paris, Ostend, Brussels, Cologne!”

“And no reply?”

“As yet none.”

“Let us look again at the note you found.”

I smoothed it out upon the table.  We had read it many times.

     “There is something else which I must tell you before I leave
     England.  Come to me at once.  The bearer will bring you.  Come alone.

     “HENRI FEURGERES.

     “P.S. ­You will be back in an hour.  Disturb no one.  It is possible
     that I may ask you to keep secret what I have to say.”

“This note,” I remarked, tapping it with my forefinger, “was taken in to Isobel by Mrs. Burdett at a quarter to eight.  It was brought, she said, by a respectable middle-aged woman, with whom Isobel left the place soon after eight.  We heard of this an hour later.  At eleven o’clock we began the search for Monsieur Feurgeres.  At three, Allan discovered that he had left the Savoy Hotel at ten for St. Petersburg.  Since then we have sent seven telegrams, the delivery of which is very problematical ­and we have heard ­nothing!”

Allan laid his hand gently upon my shoulder.

“We may get a reply from Feurgeres at any moment,” he said, “but there will be no news of Isobel.  That note is a forgery, Arnold.”

“I am afraid it is,” I admitted.  “Feurgeres was a man of his word.  He would never have sent for Isobel.”

“Then she is lost to us,” Arthur groaned.

I caught up my hat and coat.

“Not yet,” I said.  “I will go and see what Lady Delahaye has to say about this.  It can do no harm, at any rate.”

“Shall I come?” Arthur asked, half rising from his chair.

“I would rather go alone,” I answered.

The butler, who knew me by sight, was courteous but doubtful.

“Her ladyship has been receiving all the afternoon,” he told me, “but I believe that she has gone to her rooms now.  Her ladyship dines early to-night because of the opera.  I will send your name up if you like, sir.”

I walked restlessly up and down the hall for ten minutes.  Then a lady’s maid suddenly appeared through a green baize door and beckoned me to follow her.

“Her ladyship will see you upstairs, sir, if you will come this way,” she announced.

I followed her into a little boudoir.  Lady Delahaye, in a blue dressing-gown, was lying upon a sofa.  She eyed me as I entered with a curious smile.

“This is indeed an unexpected pleasure,” she murmured.  “Do sit down somewhere.  It is long past my hour of receiving, and I am just getting ready for dinner, but I positively could not send you away.  Now, please, tell me all about it.”

“You know why I have come, then?” I remarked.

“My dear man, I haven’t the least idea,” she protested.  “It is sheer unadulterated curiosity which made me send Perkins for you up here.  We’re not at all upon the sort of terms, you know,” she added, looking up at me with her big blue eyes, “for this sort of thing.”

“Isobel left us this morning!” I said bluntly.  “She received a note signed Feurgeres, which I am sure was a forgery.  She left us at eight o’clock, and she has not returned.”

Lady Delahaye looked at me with a faint smile.  Her expression puzzled me.  I was not even able to guess at the thoughts which lay underneath her words.

“How anxious you must be,” she murmured.  “Do you know, I always wondered whether Isobel would not some day weary of your milk-and-water Bohemianism.  Your Scotch friend is worthy, no doubt, but dull, and the boy was too hopelessly in love to be amusing.  And as for you ­well ­you would do very nicely, no doubt, my dear Arnold, but you are too stuffed up with principles for a girl of Isobel’s antecedents.  So she has cut the Gordian knot herself!  Well, I am sorry!”

“You are sorry!” I repeated.  “Why?”

She smiled sweetly at me.

“Because my dear friend has promised me that wonderful emerald necklace if I could get the child away from you, and I think that very soon, with the help of that stupid boy, I should have succeeded,” she said regretfully.  “Such emeralds, Arnold! and you know how anything green suits me.”

“You do not doubt, then, but that it is the Archduchess who has done this?” I said.

Lady Delahaye lifted her eyebrows.

“Either the Archduchess, or Isobel has walked off of her own sweet will,” she remarked calmly.  “In any case you have lost the child, and I have lost my necklace.  I positively cannot risk losing my dinner too,” she added, with a glance at the clock, “so I am afraid ­I am so sorry, but I must ask you to go away.  Come and see me again, won’t you?  Perhaps we can be friends again now that this bone of contention is removed.”

“I have never desired anything else, Lady Delahaye,” I said.  “But if my friendship is really of any value to you, if you would care to earn my deepest gratitude, you could easily do so.”

“Really!  In what manner?”

“By helping me to regain possession of the child.”

She laughed at me, softly at first, and then without restraint.  Finally she rang the bell.

“My dear Arnold,” she exclaimed, wiping her eyes, “you are really too naïve!  You amuse me more than I can tell you.  My maid will show you the way downstairs.  Do come and see me again soon.  Good-bye!”

So that was the end of any hope we may have had of help from Lady Delahaye.  I called a hansom outside and drove at once to Blenheim House, the temporary residence of the Archduchess and her suite.  A footman passed me on to a more important person who was sitting at a round table in the hall with a visitor’s book open before him.  I explained to him my desire to obtain a few moments’ audience with the Archduchess, but he only smiled and shook his head.

“It is quite impossible for her Highness to see anyone now before her departure, sir,” he said.  “If you are connected with the Press, I can only tell you what I have told all the others.  We have received a telegram from Illghera with grave news concerning the health of his Majesty the King of Waldenburg, and notwithstanding the indisposition of the Princess Adelaide, the Archduchess has arranged to leave for Illghera at once.  A fuller explanation will appear in the Court Circular, and the Archduchess is particularly anxious to express her great regret to all those whom the cancellation of her engagements may inconvenience.  Good-day, sir!”

The man recommenced his task, which was apparently the copying out of a list of names from the visitor’s book, and signed to the footman with his penholder to show me out.  But I stood my ground.

“You are leaving to-day, then?” I said.

“We are leaving to-day,” the man assented, without glancing up from his task.  “We are naturally very busy.”

“Can I see the Baron von Leibingen?” I asked.

“It is quite impossible, sir,” the man answered shortly.  “He is engaged with her Highness.”

“I will wait!” I declared.

“Then I must trouble you, sir, to wait outside,” he said, with a little gesture of impatience.  “I do not wish to seem uncivil, but my orders to-day are peremptory.”

At that moment a door opened and a man came across the hall, slowly drawing on his gloves.  I looked up and saw the Baron von Leibingen.  He recognized me at once, and bowed courteously.  At the same time there was something in his manner which gave me the impression that he was not altogether pleased to see me.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Greatson?” he asked, pausing for a moment by my side.

“I am anxious to obtain five minutes’ interview with the Archduchess,” I answered.  “If you could manage that for me I should be exceedingly obliged.”

He shook his head.

“It is quite impossible!” he said decisively.  “You have heard of the serious news from Illghera, without doubt.  We shall be on our way there in a few hours.”

I drew him a little on one side.

“Is Isobel here, Baron?” I asked bluntly.

“I beg your pardon ­is who here?” he inquired, with the air of one who is puzzled by an incomprehensible question.

“Isobel ­the Princess Isobel, if you like ­has been lured from our care by a forged message.  We know her history now, and we are able to understand the nature of the interest which your mistress has shown in her.  Therefore, when I find her missing I come to you.  I want to know if she is in this house.”

“If she were,” the Baron remarked, “I, and everyone else who knows anything about it, would say at once that she was in her proper place.  If she were, I should most earnestly advise the Archduchess to keep her here.  But I regret to say that she is not.  To tell you the truth, the Archduchess is so annoyed at the young lady’s refusal to accept her protection, that she has lost all interest in her.  I doubt whether she would receive her now if she came.”

“Perhaps,” I remarked slowly, “she has gone to Illghera.”

“It is, of course,” the Baron agreed, “not an impossibility.”

“If I do not succeed in my search,” I said, “it is to Illghera that I shall come.”

“You will find it,” the Baron assured me, with a smile, “a most charming place.  I shall be delighted to renew our acquaintance there.”

“His Majesty,” I continued, “is, I have heard, very accessible.  I shall be able to tell him Isobel’s story.  You may keep the child away from him, Baron, but you cannot prevent his learning the fact of her existence and her history.”

“My young friend,” the Baron answered, edging his way towards the door, “your enigmas at another time would be most interesting.  But at present I have affairs on hand, and I am pressed for time.  I will permit myself to say, however, that you are altogether deceiving yourself.  It was the one wish of the Archduchess to have taken Isobel to her grandfather and begged him to recognize her.”

“You decline to meet me fairly, then ­to tell me the truth?  Mind, I firmly believe that Isobel is now under your control.  I shall not rest until I have discovered her.”

“Then you may discover, my young friend,” the Baron said, putting on his hat, and turning resolutely away, “the true meaning of the word weariness.  You are a fool to ask me any questions at all.  We are on opposite sides.  If I knew where the child was you are the last person whom I should tell.  Her place is anywhere ­save with you!”

He bowed and turned away, whispering as he passed to a footman, who at once approached me.  I allowed myself to be shown out.  As a matter of fact, I had no alternative.  But on the steps was an English servant in the Blenheim livery.  I slipped half a sovereign into his hand.

“Can you tell me what time the Archduchess leaves, and from what station?” I asked.

“I am not quite sure about the time, sir,” the man answered, “but the ’buses are ordered from Charing Cross, and they are to be here at eight to-night.”

It was already past seven.  I lit a cigarette and strolled on towards the station.