"I told her I loved the name as a sweet
reminder of my mother."
"What did she say?" I asked.
"She seemed pleased and flashed her eyes on me--you know the way she
has--and said: 'I, too, like the name. It fits you so well--by
contraries.' Where could she have learned it, and how could she have
known it was my mother's love-name for me?"
"I cannot tell," I answered.
So! here was a small fact suddenly grown big, since, despite all
evidence to the contrary, it brought me back to my old belief that this
fair, laughing Yolanda was none other than the great Princess of
Burgundy. I was sure that she had gained all her information concerning
Max from my letters to Hymbercourt.
It racks a man's brain to play shuttlecock with it in that fashion.
While I lay in bed trying to sleep, I thought of the meeting between the
duke and the princess at the Postern, and back again flew my mind to the
conviction that Yolanda was not, and could not possibly be, the Princess
Mary. For days I had been able to think on no other subject. One moment
she was Yolanda; the next she was the princess; and the next I did not
know who she was. Surely the riddle would drive me mad. The fate of
nations--but, infinitely more important to me, the fate of Max--depended
upon its solution.
Castleman had told us to remain at the inn until his return, and had
exacted from Max, as you will remember, a promise not to visit the House
under the Wall, which we had learned was the home of our burgher friend.
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