“The Princess of Eiderstrom and--a gentleman. The Princess said that her errand with you was urgent, sir,” he added, turning apologetically towards his master. The Princess was already in the room, and following her a short man in a suit of sombre black, wearing a white tie, and carrying a black bowler hat. He blinked across the room through his thick glasses, and Dominey knew that the end had come. The door was closed behind them. The Princess came a little further into the room. Her hand was extended towards Dominey, but not in greeting. Her white finger pointed straight at him. She turned to her companion. “Which is that, Doctor Schmidt?” she demanded. “The Englishman, by God!” Schmidt answered. The silence which reigned for several seconds was intense and profound. The coolest of all four was perhaps Dominey. The Princess was pale with a passion which seemed to sob behind her words. “Everard Dominey,” she cried, “what have you done with my lover? What have you done with Leopold Von Ragastein?” “He met with the fate,” Dominey replied, “which he had prepared for me. We fought and I conquered.” “You killed him?” “I killed him,” Dominey echoed. “It was a matter of necessity. His body sleeps on the bed of the Blue River.” “And your life here has been a lie!” “On the contrary, it has been the truth,” Dominey objected. “I assured you at the Carlton, when you first spoke to me, and I have assured you a dozen times since, that I was Everard Dominey. That is my name. That is who I am.” Seaman's voice seemed to come from a long way off. For the moment the man had neither courage nor initiative. He seemed as though he had received some sort of stroke. His mind was travelling backwards. “You came to me at Cape Town,” he muttered; “you had all Von Ragastein's letters, you knew his history, you had the Imperial mandate.” “Von Ragastein and I exchanged the most intimate confidences in his camp,” Dominey said, “as Doctor Schmidt there knows. I told him my history, and he told me his. The letters and papers I took from him.” Schmidt had covered his face with his hands for a moment. His shoulders were heaving. “My beloved chief!” he sobbed. “My dear devoted master! Killed by that drunken Englishman!” “Not so drunk as you fancied him,” Dominey said coolly, “not so far gone in his course of dissipation but that he was able to pull himself up when the great incentive came.” The Princess looked from one to the other of the two men. Seaman had still the appearance of a man struggling to extricate himself from some sort of nightmare. “My first and only suspicion,” he faltered, “was that night when Wolff disappeared!” “Wolff's coming was rather a tragedy,” Dominey admitted. “Fortunately, I had a secret service man in the house who was able to dispose of him.” “It was you who planned his disappearance?” Seaman gasped. “Naturally,” Dominey replied. “He knew the truth and was trying all the time to communicate with you.”