“Perhaps you will tell me the name of this grand duchess whom you knew?”

“I think Your Excellency already knows.”

“How did she die, and when?”

“I am sorry to say that she was killed in an accident.”

“Where?”

“If Your Excellency will pick up this morning’s paper—­which you possibly have neglected to read—­you will see a list of those killed in a railroad wreck which took place the night before last on a Washington-bound train.  The list includes ‘two women, unknown’ and the pictures of both are printed.  Their bodies are now in the morgue in Baltimore awaiting identification.”

The Minister turned hastily to a table on which a number of newspapers had been carelessly laid.  He picked up a Washington publication.  On the front page was a picture of two women lying side by side—­taken at the morgue in Baltimore.  Despite the rigor of death on the features, the Minister could perceive in the face of the younger woman an unmistakable resemblance to the girl upstairs.  Greatly agitated, he turned to the priest.

“How do I know,” he asked, “that this—­” pointing to the picture—­“is not Ruth Atheson?”

“I think,” said the priest, “that you will have to take my word for it—­unless Your Excellency will verify my statement by an actual visit to the morgue.  The body is still unburied.”

“I shall send to the morgue.”

“Then for the present I will bid Your Excellency good morning.  Before going, however, I should like to emphasize that the lady now in your custody is my niece.  And Baron Griffin, of the Irish peerage, is taking an active personal interest in the matter.  Baron Griffin is now in Washington and requests me to state that he will give you until to-morrow morning to restore the lady to her friends.  That will afford ample time for a visit to Baltimore.  Unless Miss Atheson is with us by ten o’clock to-morrow morning the whole affair will be placed in the hands of the British Ambassador and of our own State Department—­with all the details.  I might add that I am stopping at the New Willard Hotel.”

The priest looked at His Excellency, who again felt the insistent hammering of that “something” he should have remembered.  The phrase, “all the details,” bore an almost sinister significance.

His Excellency gave a sudden start.  “Atheson—­Atheson.”  His voice was tense and he spoke slowly.  “What was her father’s name?”

It was what the priest had been waiting for, had expected all along.  Forgotten for years—­yes.  But where was the diplomat who did not have the information somewhere in his files?  His face saddened as he answered.

“Edgar Atheson.”

“Etkar—­”

But the priest raised his hand.

“Edgar Atheson—­if you please.”

The Minister bowed.  “And you are the brother of—­”

“Alice Murray,” the priest interrupted quietly, with a touch of dignified hauteur.