"No," he replied, "my identity is lost. Here I live, in my real appearance, under a false name. But I have a house elsewhere, in which I dwell disguised, but under my real name, and with an unreal character. Here I am a serious, plotting conspirator; there I am a dissipated, reckless, foolish spendthrift, of whom no man need be afraid. It chanced that after certain events had occurred, of which I may tell you some day, I did not return home for several years; and then I came for revenge, with ample preparations for my own safety. I resumed my old place in society with a new appearance and a new character. That personage is constantly watched by spies; but he spends his time in drunkenness and deeds of folly; and his enemies laugh and say, 'He will never trouble us; he will be dead soon.' And so, with the real name and the unreal appearance and character in one place, and a false name, but the real appearance and character, in another, I lead a dual life and thwart the cunning of my enemies, and prepare for the day of my vengeance." His eyes glowed with a baleful light as he spoke, and I could see that some great injustice, "like eager droppings into milk," had soured an otherwise loving and affectionate nature. I put my hand on his and said: "My dear Max, your enemies are my enemies and your cause my cause, from henceforth forever." His face beamed with delight, as he replied: "I may some day, my dear Gabriel, hold you to that pledge." "Agreed," I responded; "at all times I am ready." He gave his agent a roll of money, and with mutual courtesies they separated. CHAPTER XI. HOW THE WORLD CAME TO BE RUINED We were uneasy, restless, longing for the night to come. To while away the time we conversed upon subjects that were near our hearts. I said to Maximilian while he paced the room: "How did this dreadful state of affairs, in which the world now finds itself, arise? Were there no warnings uttered by any intelligent men? Did the world drift blindly and unconsciously into this condition?" "No," said Maximilian, going to his library; "no; even a hundred years ago the air was full of prophecies. Here," he said, laying his hand upon a book, is _The Century Magazine_, of February, 1889; and on page 622 we read: