“The coat-of-arms is English, mademoiselle.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite so; I understand heraldry.”
“But the initials stand for Sigismund Palsdorf, and we know he is a German baron,” broke in Amy, forgetting prudence in eagerness.
“If mademoiselle knows the name and title of this gentleman it will not be hard to find him.”
“We only fancy it is the same because of the initials. I dare say it is a mistake, and the man is English. Inquire quietly, Hoffman, if you please, as this ring is of value, and I wish to restore it to its owner,” said Helen, rather sharply.
“I shall do so, mademoiselle,” and with his gentlemanly bow, the courier left the room.
“Bless me, what’s that?” cried Amy, a moment afterward, as a ringing laugh echoed through the corridor,—a laugh so full of hearty and infectious merriment that both girls smiled involuntarily, and Amy peeped out to see who the blithe personage might be.
An old gentleman was entering his room near by, and Karl was just about to descend the stairs. Both looked back at the girlish face peeping at them, but both were quite grave, and the peal of laughter remained a mystery, like all the rest of it.
Late in the evening Hoffman returned to report that a party of young Englishmen had visited the castle that afternoon, and had left by the evening train. One of them had been named Samuel Peters, and he, doubtless, was the owner of the ring.