“Come now, lady, don’t make trouble. I can’t let you pass.” He put his hand on her arm.
“Don’t touch me!” She looked at him haughtily. “I am the Duchess Erica.”
“Yes; I know you think so, lady; that’s your trouble. Now go back quietly—do!”
She returned to her apartment. “Leave me,” she said to the old woman.
Greta retired to the anteroom. “Out of the apartment!” exclaimed Erica. “I do not wish you about.”
“Pardon, Your Serene Highness, but His Royal Highness has commanded me not to leave.”
Erica closed the door of her boudoir. She paced the floor. “How helpless I am!” she thought. “I cannot move in any direction!”
Early the next morning Grafton went to a lawyer—Fogel, who is conspicuous in the Zweitenbourg Reichstag as a fierce anti-monarchist. Grafton professed a student’s interest in the laws affecting the royal prerogative. Fogel was most courteous and obliging. He explained in detail, and, when he had ended, Grafton saw that legally his affair was hopeless. The Grand Duke was absolute over the members of his own family and court, except that he could not inflict the death penalty, nor could he detain any one in prison for a longer period than six months without showing cause before the supreme tribunal—on application of a relative of the detained person.
Grafton thanked Fogel and went mournfully back to his hotel. He was expecting every moment a message from the Grand Duke postponing or breaking his engagement, but at half-past ten no message had come. He drove out to The Castle. As he passed the northwest wing he looked up; there stood Erica. He saw her make a gesture as if she were flinging something. It struck the road just ahead of his carriage. He told the driver to stop, descended, picked up a little silver box and with it several small stones. He sent the stones sailing one at a time out over the lake. He put the box in his pocket.