"How dared you?" began the innkeeper, thrusting the letter under
Stahlberg's nose.
"Dare?—I?—Herr," said the big fellow, "I do not understand. What is it you accuse me of?"
"This," cried the innkeeper: "You have written to Herr Winthrop and told him that Her Highness was at the inn. And you were expressly forbidden to do so."
Stahlberg looked around blankly. "I swear to heaven, Herr—"
"Do not prevaricate!" the innkeeper interrupted. "You know that you wrote this."
"Stahlberg," I cried excitedly; "tell me why you wrote this note to me and I'll see that you are taken care of the rest of your days."
"I forbid him!" commanded Gretchen in alarm.
"As God hears me, Herr," said Stahlberg stoutly. "I wrote not a line to you or to any one."
"Oh!" cried the innkeeper, stamping. "And you deny that you have written here that you saw Her Highness in the garden three nights ago?"
Gretchen was beginning to grow terrified for some reason. I myself was filled with wonder, knowing well enough that nothing about a garden had been written in the note I had received.