“The box shall be found,” he said; but the assurance in his tone was meagre.
“And His Royal Highness,” continued von Ritter, “is in a sanitarium in Paris?”
“Yes, Count; the sanitarium of——”
But a rap on the door cut short his answer, and the name either was not pronounced or was drowned in the Chancellor’s stentorian:
“Herein!”
A footman handed His Excellency a telegram, and with a “Pardon me, Captain!” he opened it.
Years of diplomatic training had given the Count von Ritter a command of his facial muscles that was perfect. Not by so much even as the quiver of an eyelash did he signify the character of the tidings thus conveyed to him. Having read the message at a glance he refolded the paper with some deliberation, and then turning to Lindenwald again, asked:
“In whose sanitarium did you say?”
“Dr. De Cerveau’s.”
“You saw him there yourself?”