not far past thirty); and last, the Englishman, Detchard, a narrow-faced
fellow, with close-cut fair hair and a bronzed complexion. He was a
finely made man, broad in the shoulder and slender in the hips. A good
fighter, but a crooked customer, I put him down for. I spoke to him in
English, with a slight foreign accent, and I swear the fellow smiled,
though he hid the smile in an instant.

"So Mr. Detchard is in the secret," thought I.

Having got rid of my dear brother and his friends, I returned to make my
adieu to my cousin. She was standing at the door. I bade her farewell,
taking her hand in mine.

"Rudolf," she said, very low, "be careful, won't you?"

"Of what?"

"You know--I can't say. But think what your life is to--"

"Well to--?"

"To Ruritania."

Was I right to play the part, or wrong to play the part? I know not:
evil lay both ways, and I dared not tell her the truth.

"Only to Ruritania?" I asked softly.

A sudden flush spread over her incomparable face.