"You are quite certain of this, Heltzendorff, eh?" he asked. "The man's name is Martinez Aranda?"
"Yes. He says he is from Seville. His niece, Lola Serrano, told me to warn you that he means mischief."
"Who is the girl? Do I know her?"
"No."
"Why does she warn me?"
"I cannot say," was my reply. "As you are aware, I have no knowledge of the nature of Your Highness's visit to Rome. I merely report all that I could gather from the pair, who evidently went to Gardone to meet me."
"Where are they now?"
"In Paris—at the Hotel Terminus, Gare St. Lazare. I found out that they had taken tickets to Verona and thence to Paris, therefore I telegraphed to my friend Pinaud, of the Sûreté, who quickly found them and reported to me by wire within twenty-four hours."
"H'm! This is serious, Heltzendorff—infernally serious," declared the Crown-Prince, with knit brows, as he commenced to pace the room with his hands clasped behind his back.
Suddenly he halted in front of me and smoothed his hair—a habit of his when perplexed.