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Casimer spoke with sudden passion, and pausing abruptly, turned his face away, as if to hide some emotion he was too proud to show.

Amy’s heart ached, and her eyes filled, but her voice was sweet and steady, as she said, putting by the book, like one weary of it,–

“Are you suffering to-day? Can we do anything for you? Please let us, if we may.”

“You give me all I can receive; no one can help my pain yet; but a time will come when something may be done for me; then I will speak.” And, to her great surprise, he rose and left her, without another word.

She saw him no more till evening; then he looked excited, played stormily, and would sing in defiance of danger. The trouble in Amy’s face seemed reflected in Helen’s, though not a word had passed between them. She kept her eye on Casimer, with an intentness that worried Amy, and even when he was at the instrument Helen stood near him, as if fascinated, watching the slender hands chase one another up and down the keys with untiring strength and skill.

Suddenly she left the room and did not return. Amy was so nervous by that time, she could restrain herself no longer, and slipping out, found her cousin in their chamber, poring over a glove.

“Oh, Nell, what is it? You are so odd to-night I can’t understand you. The music excites me, and I’m miserable, and I want to know what has happened,” she said, tearfully.

“I’ve found him!” whispered Helen, eagerly, holding up the glove with a gesture of triumph.

“Who?” asked Amy, blinded by her tears.

“The baron.”

“Where?–when?” cried the girl, amazed.

“Here, and now.”

“Don’t take my breath away; tell me quick, or I shall get hysterical.”

“Casimer is Sigismund Palsdorf, and no more a Pole than I am,” was Helen’s answer.

Amy dropped in a heap on the floor, not fainting, but so amazed she had neither strength nor breath left. Sitting by her, Helen rapidly went on,–

“I had a feeling as if something was wrong, and began to watch. The feeling grew, but I discovered nothing till to-day. It will make you laugh, it was so unromantic. As I looked over uncle’s things when the laundress brought them this afternoon, I found a collar that was not his. It was marked ‘S.P.,’ and I at once felt a great desire to know who owned it. The woman was waiting for her money, and I asked her. ‘Monsieur Pologne,’ she said, for his name is too much for her. She took it into his room, and that was the end of it.”

“But it may be another name; the initials only a coincidence,” faltered Amy, looking frightened.

“No, dear, it isn’t; there is more to come. Little Roserl came crying through the hall an hour ago, and I asked what the trouble was. She showed me a prettily-bound prayer-book which she had taken from the Pole’s room to play with, and had been ordered by her mother to carry back. I looked into it; no name, but the same coat-of-arms as the glove and the handkerchief. To-night as he played I examined his hands; they are peculiar, and some of the peculiarities have left traces on the glove. I am sure it is he, for on looking back many things confirm the idea. He says he is a polisson, a rogue, fond of jokes, and clever at playing them. The Germans are famous for masquerading and practical jokes; this is one, I am sure, and uncle will be terribly angry if he discovers it.”

“But why all this concealment?” cried Amy. “Why play jokes on us? You look so worried I know you have not told me all you know or fear.”

“I confess I do fear that these men are political plotters as well as exiles. There are many such, and they make tools of rich and ignorant foreigners to further their ends. Uncle is rich, generous, and unsuspicious; and I fear that while apparently serving and enjoying us they are using him.”