"It is the hand of the late Grand Duke Rudolph," she said simply.
My surprise grew to amazement. She could not restrain a smile.
"But, excuse me, madame. I don't understand. Then whose is the document I sent you, to which I owe ..."
"Don't get excited; keep calm, Monsieur Vignerte. The paper to which you owe my regard—nay, my friendship—was not written by my husband, the late Grand Duke. But it is not without its value for me. It may even have a greater value."
As she spoke she unfolded the document "I see there a name," she said. "Sangha. Do you know where it is?"
"Yes," I answered. "I found out this morning. It is a miserable village in the Cameroons—the last German post, ten leagues from Fort Flatters, the first French post."
"That's the place," she added, "and you don't seem to know that it was in that very village that the Grand Duke Rudolph died of sunstroke on the 10th of May, 1911. He is buried there. Now you will realize my feelings on seeing in the list of projected stages of his journey the name of the place where he was to stay for ever."
"But whose is this list, then? Who drew it up?"
"A friend," replied the Grand Duchess, "the Grand Duke's faithful companion. The same man who saved his life twice in the Congo. The same who stayed with him to the end, and rendered him the last services, though he was unable to save him from the fell malady."
"What was his name?" I asked.