"Then will you do something for me?" asked Fanshawe eagerly. "Will you carry a letter for me? I love that girl, Harry. I can’t get over it. I made a mistake last time. I ought to have known that our English ways would not answer with French ladies. I spoke to Adèle herself; I ought to have spoken to her mother. If you will take it, I will write a letter to Madame de Vaudrey asking permission to pay my addresses to her daughter; that may give me a chance; don’t you think so, Harry?" "I don’t know," said Harry. He felt strangely unsympathetic with Fanshawe at that moment. "I will take your letter if you are not long about it: I ride for Maintz to-night." "Thanks, old fellow! Wait till you’re in love; then you’ll know how a fellow feels; I shall have no peace of mind till I know my fate." A few hours after this, Harry left the camp with Sherebiah, carrying the letter on which Fanshawe’s fate depended. To save time he had decided to take boat at Maintz, and sail night and day down the Rhine. Ten hours later he had bought a big boat, engaged a man who knew the river, and begun his journey. With the aid of the stream and oars, and proceeding continuously, he could save a day or two on the land journey. His plan was to engage fresh crews at every important stopping-place, so as to have relays of sturdy oarsmen and to get out of them all the work of which they were capable. The Germans were naturally not so eager as himself, and grumbled a good deal at the exertions demanded of them. "Unerhört! unerhört!" was the exclamation he frequently heard from their lips. But he never relaxed his determination, and found liberal pay a ready stimulus. Thus, without mitigation of pace, the boat rushed down the river. As one after another the river-side towns were passed, Harry felt a satisfaction mingled with an impatience too great to allow of his taking much interest in the scenes. The ugly, dirty garrison town of St. Goar, the fortress of Hesse-Rheinfels, the famous Rat tower of the Hatto legend, Coblentz, Cologne, Düsseldorf, were only so many stages of his uneventful journey. *CHAPTER XXIV* *The Wages of Sin* Promenade à Berlin—A Sudden Stop—Grootz Chuckles—Place aux Dames—The Last Two Miles—Polignac Pays the Penalty—Zo! About four o’clock on a November afternoon, fine for the time of year, two horsemen rode up to the inn at Eyndhoven. Huge clouds of steam rose from their horses into the cold air; the panting of the beasts told of a forced pace. Dismounting, the riders called for refreshment and a change of horses: they were anxious to push on at once. When their hasty meal was finished, while the master was paying the bill, the man went into the inn yard and tried to enter into conversation with a servant standing there in charge of a large empty travelling carriage. "Whose carriage is that?" he asked. "Monsieur de Polignac’s," was the surly answer.