“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.”
“Yes; he was mad—quite mad,” blurted the Baron.
“That was the common impression. He took his oldest son and went into exile. Conjectures as to his whereabouts have filled the newspapers sporadically ever since. He has been reported as appearing in the South Sea Islands, in India, in Australia, in various parts of this country. In truth he came directly to America and established himself as a farmer in western Canada. His son was killed in an accident; the Archduke died within the year.”
Judge Claiborne bent forward in his chair as Armitage paused.
“What proof have you of this story, Mr. Armitage?”