“No, Hoffman, I don’t like the air of this place, and intend to leave as soon as possible.” And Helen knit her delicate dark brows with an expression of great determination. “Switzerland is the refuge of political exiles, and I hate plots and disguises; I feel oppressed by some mystery, and mean to solve or break away from it at once.” She stopped abruptly, longing to ask his help, yet withheld by a sudden sense of shyness in approaching the subject, though she had decided to speak to Karl of the Pole. “Can I serve you, mademoiselle? If so, pray command me,” he said, eagerly, coming a step nearer. “You can, and I intend to ask your advice, for there can be nothing amiss in doing so, since you are a friend of Casimer’s.” “I am both friend and confidant, mademoiselle,” he answered, as if anxious to let her understand that he knew all, without the embarrassment of words. She looked up quickly, relieved, yet troubled. “He has told you, then?” “Everything, mademoiselle. Pardon me if this afflicts you; I am his only friend here, and the poor lad sorely needed comfort.” “He did. I am not annoyed; I am glad, for I know you will sustain him. Now I may speak freely, and be equally frank. Please tell me if he is indeed fatally ill?” “It was thought so some months ago; now I hope. Happiness cures many ills, and since he has loved, he has improved. I always thought care would save him; he is worth it.” Hoffman paused, as if fearful of venturing too far; but Helen seemed to confide freely in him, and said, softly,— “Ah, if it were only wise to let him be happy. It is so bitter to deny love.” “God knows it is!” The exclamation broke from Hoffman as if an irrepressible impulse wrung it from him. Helen started, and for a moment neither spoke. She collected herself soonest, and without turning, said, quietly,— “I have been troubled by a strong impression that Casimer is not what he seems. Till he denied it on his honor I believed him to be Baron Palsdorf. Did he speak the truth when he said he was not?” “Yes, mademoiselle.” “Then, Casimer Teblinski is his real name?” No answer. She turned sharply, and added,— “For my cousin’s sake, I must know the truth. Several curious coincidences make me strongly suspect that he is passing under an assumed name.” Not a word said Hoffman, but looked on the ground, as motionless and expressionless as a statue. Helen lost patience, and in order to show how much she had discovered, rapidly told the story of the gloves, ring, handkerchief, prayer-book and collar, omitting all hint of the girlish romance they had woven about these things. As she ended, Hoffman looked up with a curious expression, in which confusion, amusement, admiration and annoyance seemed to contend. “Mademoiselle,” he said, gravely, “I am about to prove to you that I feel honored by the confidence you place in me. I cannot break my word, but I will confess to you that Casimer does _not_ bear his own name.”