Silence held the company as the Ambassador's fine old
hands touched one after another. It seemed to Shirley that these baubles
again bound the New World, the familiar hills of home, the Virginia
shores, to the wallowing caravels of Columbus.
The Ambassador closed the silver box the better to examine the white
falcon upon its lid. Then he swung about and confronted Armitage.
"Where is he, Monsieur?" he asked, his voice sunk to a whisper, his eyes
sweeping the doors and windows.
"The Archduke Karl is dead; his son Frederick Augustus, whom these
conspirators have imagined me to be--he, too, is dead."
"You are quite sure--you are quite sure, Mr. Armitage?"
"I am quite sure."
"That is not enough! We have a right to ask more than your word!"
"No, it is not enough," replied Armitage quietly. "Let me make my story
brief. I need not recite the peculiarities of the Archduke--his dislike
of conventional society, his contempt for sham and pretense. After living
a hermit life at one of the smallest and most obscure of the royal
estates for several years, he vanished utterly. That was fifteen years
ago.
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