“I know the good Baron,” I said carelessly, “just a casual acquaintance.” “How unfortunate you are,” said Mister Haynes (I should say Major Haynes) in tones of sadness. “Why unfortunate, major?” I asked. “All your friends seem to get into trouble,” sighed the major; “perhaps you don’t know that a number of important documents were stolen from Leatham Priory last night.” “Great heavens, you don’t mean to say that,” I said with well-simulated astonishment. “Yes, fortunately, the most important, including secret cases, were left behind. They were in a steel cash-box and the thief or thieves did not trouble to examine its contents.” I did not swoon. Nobody seeing me would imagine what thoughts were swimming through my brain. “The robbery was discovered this morning and naturally suspicion attached to the Baron,” the major went on. “Why to the Baron?” I asked. “Well, you see,” said Haynes, “he has been hanging about the neighbourhood and we discovered some time ago that he had arranged with the clerk of a house agent to occupy a room in a house which was ostensibly to let.” My flesh went cold and like a goose’s. “From his headquarters,” Mister Haynes went on, “he apparently sallied forth from time to time making a very careful reconnaissance of the Priory. He must have known that an important Conference was to be held. We have established the fact that two of Lord Leatham’s servants were in his pay, and so, naturally, when the portfolios were missing we searched his lodging.” “Oh, naturally,” said I weakly. “And we discovered the stolen property.” “How strange!” I said in a hollow voice. “And you don’t know him,” said Mister Haynes, I mean Major Haynes. “No, sir, I do not,” I said with firm determination. “Well, you are unlucky,” said the major; “for if you don’t know him now you never will know him,” and with those ominous words he left me. CHAPTER VII. THE WORD OF A PRINCE If there was a moral to these narratives which were originally written not so much for publication as to convey a true record of an adventurous career, to one who was inexpressibly dear to me, the learned and beautiful Miss Kathleen O’Mara, secretary (honorary, for she would not accept payment for performing a national service) of the German Gaelic League of Chicago, the most implacable, the most bitter enemy proud Albion has ever had. Thou sweet and slender flower of Erin, with thy shamrock eyes and thy rosebud mouth, the unhappy writer of these lines will never again tread a giddy measure at the Plumbers’ Ball where first I met thee. Thy friend, whom thou hast admitted was more than friend, may yet fill an unknown grave! Then, hadst thou been true, my voice would have spoken to thee even though I floated in the Germanic Heaven amidst the well-born saints of the Fatherland. As it is--I cry _pfui!_ to the very thought of thee!