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PAGE 12

The Baron’s Gloves; Or, Amy’s Romance
by [?]

“How did it happen?” she asked, rather sternly.

“Upon my word, I don’t know, unless he put it on while I was stupidly fainting. Rude man, to take advantage of me so. But, Nell, it is splendid, and what shall I do about it?”

“Tell uncle, find out the man and send back his things. It really is absurd, the manner in which German boys behave;” and Helen frowned, though she was strongly tempted to laugh at the whole thing.

“He was neither a German nor a boy, but an English gentleman, I’m sure,” began Amy, rather offended.

“But ‘S.P.’ is a baron, you know, unless there are two Richmonds in the field,” broke in Helen.

“I forgot that; never mind, it deepens the mystery; and after this performance, I’m prepared for any enormity. It’s my fate; I submit.” said Amy, tragically, as she waved her hand to and fro, pleased with the flash of the ring.

“Amy, I think on the whole I won’t speak to uncle. He is quick to take offence, especially where we are concerned. He doesn’t understand foreign ways, and may get into trouble. We will manage it quietly ourselves.”

“How, Nell?”

“Karl is discreet; we will merely say we found these things and wish to discover the owner. He may know this ‘S.P.’ and, having learned his address, we can send them back. The man will understand; and as we leave to-morrow, we shall be out of the way before he can play any new prank.”

“Have in Karl at once, for if I wear this lovely thing long I shall not be able to let it go at all. How dared the creature take such a liberty!” and Amy pulled off the ring with an expression of great scorn.

“Come into the salon and see what Karl says to the matter. Let me speak, or you will say too much. One must be prudent before–“

She was going to say “servants,” but checked herself, and substituted “strangers,” remembering gratefully how much she owed this man.

Hoffman came, looking pale, and with his hand in a sling, but was as gravely devoted as ever, and listened to Helen’s brief story with serious attention.

“I will inquire, mademoiselle, and let you know at once. It is easy to find persons if one has a clue. May I see the handkerchief?”

Helen showed it. He glanced at the initials, and laid it down with a slight smile.

“The coat-of-arms is English, mademoiselle.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite so; I understand heraldry.”

“But the initials stand for Sigismund Palsdorf, and we know he is a German baron,” broke in Amy, forgetting prudence in eagerness.

“If mademoiselle knows the name and title of this gentleman it will not be hard to find him.”

“We only fancy it is the same because of the initials. I dare say it is a mistake, and the man is English. Inquire quietly, Hoffman, if you please, as this ring is of value, and I wish to restore it to its owner,” said Helen, rather sharply.

“I shall do so, mademoiselle,” and with his gentlemanly bow, the courier left the room.

“Bless me, what’s that?” cried Amy, a moment afterward, as a ringing laugh echoed through the corridor,–a laugh so full of hearty and infectious merriment that both girls smiled involuntarily, and Amy peeped out to see who the blithe personage might be.

An old gentleman was entering his room near by, and Karl was just about to descend the stairs. Both looked back at the girlish face peeping at them, but both were quite grave, and the peal of laughter remained a mystery, like all the rest of it.

Late in the evening Hoffman returned to report that a party of young Englishmen had visited the castle that afternoon, and had left by the evening train. One of them had been named Samuel Peters, and he, doubtless, was the owner of the ring.

A humorous expression lurked in the couriers eye as he made his report, and heard Amy exclaim, in a tone of disgust and comical despair,–