He found himself in a large room hung with blue, and somewhat dark, as it was lighted by but one window; it was only a thoroughfare, as was plain from the furniture, that consisted simply of cabinets placed against the walls. Kurt went to the window, and found that he had been correct in suspecting that the room led to the wing extending into the park, in which were the Baron's apartments; before him was the lawn, in front of the Baron's windows, and to the left was the park itself; he could even see the path by which he, with his two friends, had on the previous day visited the stables at the back of the gardener's house, where the Baron kept a fine pair of riding-horses, belonging to his cousin the Marquise. Which of the four doors that opened into this apartment should he select? He tried the one nearest him; it was unlocked, and he entered a room furnished with the greatest luxury, and leading by an open door to a bedroom as gorgeously fitted up. A writing-table stood beside the window, and an open portfolio, from between the leaves of which, as Kurt took it up, fluttered a torn envelope, addressed in German to the "Herr Count Repuin." Count Repuin! Kurt knew the name but too well. Herr Ahlborn had at Lucie's request told him his daughter's sad story, and this name was branded in his memory as that of Lucie's unprincipled persecutor. And he found it here upon an empty envelope postmarked Brussels. The connection was easy to divine, Repuin was the brother of the Marquise de Lancy, and the former inmate of this room. But he had not fled to Germany alone: Sorr had accompanied him. There suddenly occurred to Kurt an explanation of the fact that Styrum, Arno, and the colonel, to all of whom Sorr was personally known, had been puzzled by the resemblance of the Baron de Nouart to some one whose name they could not recall. If all this were as he suspected, if Repuin, the proscribed French agent, were really the brother of the Marquise de Lancy, if his tool, Sorr, were here in the castle in disguise, certainly the greatest caution was necessary; there was danger of treachery on every hand, danger that perhaps could be averted only by the instant arrest of the Baron de Nouart. And yet, could mere suspicion justify such an arrest? The man would have to be taken to Nontron, and tried there by a court-martial, which, under the direction of the pitiless Count Schlichting, could end but in one way,--death. Kurt thought of Celia's friend, of Frau von Sorr; the death of her worthless husband would restore her to life. But in an instant he spurned the unworthy thought. His friendship for Lucie should never influence him where duty was concerned. This duty, however, bade him reveal his discovery to his superior officer; it was for him to command in this matter, Kurt's part was to obey.