"I'm sure your kick would be a most enthusiastic one," said a voice at his elbow. A lady in handsome furs and a blue veil--a common protection, in Grimland, against snow-glare--was addressing him. Despite this concealment, however, Trafford did not need to look twice before recognising the Princess Gloria. "You can leave us, Martha," commanded the Princess to the angular attendant. "I am quite capable of describing these horrors to this gentleman. I am sufficiently familiar with the Strafeburg, and shall quite possibly become more so." Then, as the obedient Martha withdrew her many inches from the room: "I want to thank you for last night's work," she said to Trafford; "and if I may, to ask----" "Charmed to have been of service," interrupted the American, and taking the Princess's hand, he bent low and kissed it. As he raised his head again there was a flush in his cheek and a fire in his eye that seemed portents of something warmer than the Platonism of a dead soul. "But don't resume the hospitality of the Concordia," he added. "Meyer suspects, and my lying capacities have been well-nigh exhausted." "He has been cross-questioning you?" "Most pertinaciously; but I lied with fluency and fervour." The Princess laughed gaily. "You are splendid!" she cried, clapping her hands with girlish excitement. "Do you know," she went on presently, "that the authorities, acting under Herr Saunders' advice, are going to adopt strenuous measures against us?" "Is that anything new?" "Not exactly. But they have decided to leave off trying to murder us, and are going to try and take us openly. The ex-Queen,--whose nerves are not very good,--has already crossed the frontier into Austria. Father Bernhardt has found several new hiding-places, and a brace of new revolvers." "And you?" asked Trafford. "Have found you," she answered with a frank smile. "Admirable!" laughed the American. "But tell me, pray, how I can serve you." "You will be dining at the Palace to-night. Find out all you can and report to me." Trafford was silent. He was about to dine with the King, and he had certain scruples about the sacredness of hospitality. Quick as a flash the Princess read his silence, and bit her lip. "Now then," she said, as if to change the subject, "let me play the part of showman. Here we have the famous 'Iron Maiden.'" Trafford beheld a weird sarcophagus set upright against the wall, and rudely shaped like a human form. On the head were painted the lineaments of a woman's face, and the mediæval craftsman had contrived to portray a countenance of abominable cruelty, not devoid of a certain sullen, archaic beauty. A vertical joint ran from the crown of the head to the base, and the thing opened in the middle with twin doors. The Princess inserted a heavy key,--which was hanging from a convenient nail,--and displayed the interior.