voice fell on his ears. "My way and the freedom of the house and
the key to the purse; your way and a closed door while I live.
You can go, but you can not come back. You have decided? Yes?
Then good morning." Thirteen years, thirteen years! He had
sacrificed the freedom of the house and the key to the purse,
the kind eyes and the warm pressure of that old hand. And for
what? Starvation in the deserts, plenty of scars and little of
thanks, ingratitude and forgetfulness.

And now the kind eyes were closed and the warm hand cold. O, to
recall the vanished face, the silent voice, the misspent years,
the April days and their illusions! The Englishman took the
monocle from his eye and looked at it, wondering what had caused
the sudden blur.

"There was a fine old man there in the bygone days," said Johann.

"And who was he?"

"Lord Fitzgerald, the British minister. He and Leopold were
close friends." Johann's investigating gaze went unrewarded. The
Englishman's face had resumed its expression of mild curiosity.

"Ah; a compatriot of mine," he said. Inwardly he mused: "This
guide is watching me; let him catch me if he can. His duchess? I
know far too much of her!"

"He was a millionaire, too," went on Johann.

"Well, we can't all be rich. Come."