We sat down at the table. "Now tell me everything all over again," she said. CHAPTER XII I AM INFORMED THAT I AM IN LOVE Mr. Poopendyke began to develop a streak of romantic invention--in fact, tomfoolery--A day or two after my experience with Count Tarnowsy in the Rempf Hotel. He is the last person in the world of whom I--or any one else--would suspect silliness of a radical nature. We were finding it rather difficult to get down to actual, serious work on the book. The plot and the synopsis, of course, were quite completely outlined; with ordinary intensity of purpose on my part the tale might have galloped through the introductory chapters with some clarity and decisiveness. But for some reason I lacked the power of concentration, or perhaps more properly speaking the power of initiative. I laid it to the hub-bub created by the final effort of the workmen to finish the job of repairing my castle before cold weather set in. "That isn't it, Mr. Smart," said my secretary darkly. We were in the study and my pad of paper was lying idly on my knees. For half an hour I had been trying to think of a handy sentence with which to open the story; the kind of sentence that catches the unwary reader's attention at a glance and makes for interest. "What is it, then?" I demanded, at once resenting an opinion. He smiled mysteriously. "You were not thinking of the workmen just now, were you?" "Certainly," said I, coldly. "What's that got to do with it?" "Nothing, I suppose," said he resignedly. I hesitated. "Of course it is the work that upsets me. What are you driving at?" He stared for a long time at the portrait of Ludwig the Red. "Isn't it odd that the Countess, an American, should be descended from the old Rothhoefens? What a small world it is, after all!" I became wary. "Nothing odd about it to me. We've all got to descend from somebody." "I dare say. Still it is odd that she should be hiding in the castle of her ances--" "Not at all, not at all. It just happens to be a handy place. Perfectly natural." We lapsed into a prolonged spell of silence. I found myself watching him rather combatively, as who would anticipate the move of an adversary. "Perfect rot," said I, at last, without rhyme or reason. He grinned. "Nevertheless, it's the general opinion that you are," said he. I sat up very straight. "What's that?" "You're in love," said he succinctly. It was like a bomb, and a bomb is the very last thing in succinctness. It comes to the point without palaver or conjecture, and it reduces havoc to a single synonymous syllable. "You're crazy!" I gasped. "And the workmen haven't anything at all to do with it," he pronounced emphatically. It was a direct charge. I distinctly felt called upon to refute it. But while I was striving to collect my thoughts he went on, somewhat arbitrarily, I thought: "You don't think we're all blind, do you, Mr. Smart?" "We?" I murmured, a curious dampness assailing me.