"Don't imagine that I am not angry because I'm laughing," declared the Princess. "I have--unfortunately, perhaps--a painfully acute sense of humour. I very often laugh when I am feeling most deeply." But Trafford having commenced to laugh, gave way to roars of laughter. He had been accorded such varied treatment, such swiftly-changing moods, that he was quite uncertain as to what the next moment would bring forth; and the atmosphere of political intrigue and romantic adventure--with its picturesque setting of ancient houses and deep snow--lifted him into such regions of pure unreality that he laughed for very joy at the exhilarating absurdity of it all. "Great Scott! To think I have lived eight-and-twenty years without discovering Grimland!" he exclaimed when able to catch his breath. "Princess, you must indeed forgive me.... It seems, besides dead hearts, we have in common a most lively sense of the ridiculous." "I'll forgive you when you have seen me home," she replied. "But I absolutely repudiate the bargain we made at Herr Krantz's wine shop. We may have much in common ... but surely you don't suppose that I would marry a man with a dead heart?" "As to the bargain, I surmised as much when you raised your hand to----" he broke off suddenly, and then added: "I suppose the deal is off, then? Well, perhaps it's just as well for both of us. May I ask where your home is?" "My home--my home for to-night--is there," said the Princess, pointing across the street to an entrance, which bore the number forty-two. Trafford looked up at a venerable structure, which raised its steep gable somewhat higher than its neighbours. Light shone from a window on the second story. Otherwise the façade showed a blank front of closed shutters. Just as they were crossing the snow-encumbered road, a couple of men halted before the door in question, and one of them knocked loudly. The Princess and Trafford stopped automatically. Both scented danger, one from experience, the other from instinct. A friendly archway afforded complete concealment, and there, sheltered alike from gaze and the bitter wind, they awaited developments. Trafford felt his arm gripped tight by a little hand, either from excitement or from a desire for protection. "Those are Meyer's men," whispered the Princess. Trafford nodded in reply. He was humming the Rothlied softly between his teeth. They watched for a silent moment, and then a woman answered the door. After a moment's palaver, the men went in. Simultaneously two more men glided into view from some invisible hiding-place, and took up their positions one on each side of the doorway. "Are you armed?" asked the Princess in a whisper. Trafford's eyes were like stars for brightness. "I have my fists," he answered. The Princess produced a tiny revolver from a satin handbag, which she pressed on her companion. Trafford declined it curtly. "I have my fists," he repeated.