LITMIR.BIZ

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solid German, when I call you a crank. I use a 'k,' not a 'c' The German word for a man who is ill is 'kranke.' More correctly at this moment you are a 'herzkranke.' Do brush up your German, Peter, but anyhow, don't fail me at Charing Cross."

      "Oh, that's all very well, Stranleigh, but while I'm in danger of being dragged before the law-courts——"

      "Within half an hour this possible litigation will be in the hands of the most competent solicitor in London, so I implore you, Peter, to go home, and allow me time to give a few orders. I must get into telegraphic communication with the German Government in order that my own comfort, and incidentally yours, shall be properly looked after."

      Mackeller proved very difficult to manage, as, indeed, all strenuous men are when they only half believe what the doctor tells them, and feel irritated at the thought of even a temporary suspension of business. Stranleigh, however, was imperturbably good-natured, though he sighed with relief when finally he got Peter aboard the sleeping-car at Ostend.

      ​Peter did not sleep well during the early part of the night. He had looked up the route, and worried over the fact that he must rise before reaching Herbesthal, in order to pass his belongings through the German Customs. This ceremony, which would take place somewhere between four and five o'clock in the morning, he regarded as a stupid, thoroughly foreign proceeding, and furthermore, as the sleeping-car did not go beyond Cologne, at six o'clock he must get into the train for the left bank of the Rhine. Notwithstanding, during the long wait at Brussels he dropped off into a sort of stupor, having enjoyed little real slumber since learning the seriousness of his condition.

      It was after nine o'clock when he woke with a jump, knowing that everything had gone wrong because of his temporary oblivion. His room was still dark, although sunshine struggled through chinks of the blinds. He turned on the electric light, and a glance at his watch threw him into a panic. The train was humming along merrily, and the Lord only knew in what direction it was going. More than three hours had elapsed since he should have changed carriages, and doubtless all his baggage was retained at the German frontier.

      ​Trembling with excitement, he wrapped a dressing-gown round him, and stepped out into the corridor, where he was met by the unruffled Ponderby.

      "I must see Stranleigh at once," demanded Mackeller. "I wonder if he has the least notion into what part of Germany he has got us. And then there's the luggage: every stick of it held up at Herbesthal these four or five hours!"

      "His lordship," responded Ponderby, pronouncing the title with gentle deference, "is not to be disturbed until eleven o'clock, as we approach Frankfort. This carriage goes through from Frankfort to Nauheim, as it came through Cologne for Frankfort. The luggage is all aboard, and has been examined. His lordship will breakfast between Frankfort and Nauheim, but I have orders to attend to your wants whenever you call. He recommends a nice fresh sole, which we took on at Ostend, or an excellent Rhine salmon, obtained at Cologne. His lordship is anxious to eliminate all cause of worry, and so empowered me to open and read to you any telegram that came from London. Already several messages have been received pertaining to his own affairs, but one arrived half an hour ago, at our last stop, which may interest you. All your threatened law cases have been ​settled at a figure ten per cent. higher than you had stipulated for. I may tell you privately that in each case his lordship gave your opponents the opportunity of compromising on this basis, or being involved in law proceedings with his lordship himself. Such is the power of money that in every instance his lordship's reputation as a very wealthy man carried the day. Did you say sole, or salmon, Mr. Mackeller?"

      "A grilled sole," muttered Mackeller, who thereupon retired to dress. Ponderby's words were unexceptionable, but his tone implied a subtle condescension which Mackeller resented. It was only too evident that Stranleigh's valet regarded him as a fussy muddler of affairs, in no way to be compared with his slothful, but efficient master.

      Mackeller 's medical examination at Nauheim resulted in his being ordered into a private sanatorium, where communication even with friends was forbidden, and Stranleigh felt a qualm of meanness at the relief caused by this announcement.

      There was much to interest a stranger in Bad-Nauheim. At first sight it seemed exclusively the stamping ground of the rich, for its new bathing houses were models of modern convenience and luxury, while comfortable hotels, lavishness in well ​laid-out parks, and the general expensiveness of its Parisian shops, marked it as a resort of the wealthy. Soon, however, the young nobleman learned that great reductions were made to people whose income was less than two-thousand-five hundred marks a year, and that the Bath Direction, in extreme cases, remitted the fees altogether.

      Lord Stranleigh's mind being turned in the direction of finding some means to do good with his money, other than by the haphazard charity in which he was accustomed to indulge, found himself confronted by an obstacle seemingly insurmountable. He felt a reluctance he could not overcome in approaching a person evidently poor, and scraping acquaintance with him. Such an action on his part seemed impudent; indelicate; an unwarrantable intrusion. He was therefore deeply gratified when a man undoubtedly in low financial condition made the first advance.

      He had frequently observed this man, and wondered why he was poor, for his face was keen and vulpine, a countenance that betokened power if ever a countenance is any index of character. The eyes, however, were dull and expressionless, and Stranleigh thought that in spite of the masterful face they betokened a vacant mind. But once ​he caught them fastened on himself with such intensity that it almost made him shiver.

      "That man's an anarchist," he decided, but the explanation came immediately.

      "I beg your pardon," said the stranger, "but have you finished with that newspaper in your pocket?"

      "Oh, quite," responded Stranleigh, "and you are very welcome to it."

      "I only want a glance at the news. I'll give it back to you in a minute."

      "I take only a glance at the news myself," replied Stranleigh, "so I don't wish it returned if you will be good enough to accept it."

      "You are very kind. The truth is I can't afford to buy a paper in this town. I can get better dailies where I come from, for a cent, and here they charge four to six times that much."

      Stranleigh sat down beside him on the bench. They were in the Parkstrasse, with many passers-by going up to the afternoon concert at the Kurhaus. The person who couldn't afford a newspaper showed great familiarity with the one presented to him. He scanned its columns with lightning rapidity, then folded it up, and handed it back. For a moment it seemed to Stranleigh that his threadbare ​acquaintance was already aware of the journal's contents, and had made his request merely as an opening for conversation.

      "I am not well enough dressed," he demurred, when Stranleigh proposed they should go to the concert together, "to mix with you swells on the terrace, and though I understand the music is good, I don't care much for music."

      "I'm no swell," said the younger man with a laugh, "and I've just invited you to come there with me."

      "No swell!" cried the other. "Why, I heard a person who spoke English say, as he pointed you out, that you were Lord Stranleigh, and he added you were the richest man in Europe."

      "Oh! I don't know about the richest, but my name happens to be Stranleigh."

      "I didn't believe about the richest myself. If a man has a little money, people always call him a millionaire, and generally he isn't. But their calling you a lord interested me. I'd never seen a real live lord. I thought they didn't speak to ordinary folks."

      "My fault," confessed Stranleigh, "lies rather in the opposite direction. I'm so anxious to talk to people, that I sometimes find a difficulty in getting them to talk to me."

      ​"Well, I resolved to make a move toward you, and then when I got back home I'd tell them that I'd talked with a genuine lord."

      "Where is 'back home'?" asked Stranleigh.

      "I guess I'd better introduce myself, as one good turn deserves another. My name's J. W. Garner. I'm clerk in a railway freight

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