two Englishmen who had spent the night at the inn were discussing the views as they breakfasted on the terrace, but now her full attention was aroused by hearing the name of Shishman Pelenko mentioned. “Queer thing that we should have come straight from Shishman Pelenko to his ancestral halls,” one man had said. “Would it be well to call? The place looks inhabited.” “I think not. We know that Shishman isn’t there, and though he’s a good sort, his elder brother is a queer lot, I believe.” Helene dropped her paint-box, and running down the stairs, presented herself suddenly before the astonished tourists. “I must ask you to excuse me for disturbing you,” she said, with the little air of dignity which sat so oddly and yet so well on her, “but I think I heard you mention the name of Prince Shishman Pelenko? He is a kind of relation of ours--at least, he is the cousin of a cousin--and his movements have--have puzzled us a little of late.” Was this untrue? she wondered uncomfortably. “He is an erratic fellow,” said the elder of the two Englishmen--they had both risen politely when she addressed them, “but I am glad to be able to assure you that he was all right ten days ago, Fräulein. We have been mountaineering with him in the Caucasus for more than two months, and though he has had several hairbreadth escapes, he’s as fit as he can be.” “We heard a rumour--about a duel,” hazarded Helene. “He has had no opportunity of fighting a duel for three months at least, madame”--the speaker had caught sight of the wedding-ring on Helene’s finger. “Indeed, I know, for he told me himself, that his last duel happened quite three years ago.”