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“I am both friend and confidant, mademoiselle,” he answered, as if anxious to let her understand that he knew all, without the embarrassment of words. She looked up quickly, relieved, yet troubled.

“He has told you, then?”

“Everything, mademoiselle. Pardon me if this afflicts you; I am his only friend here, and the poor lad sorely needed comfort.”

“He did. I am not annoyed; I am glad, for I know you will sustain him. Now I may speak freely, and be equally frank. Please tell me if he is indeed fatally ill?”

“It was thought so some months ago; now I hope. Happiness cures many ills, and since he has loved, he has improved. I always thought care would save him; he is worth it.”

Hoffman paused, as if fearful of venturing too far; but Helen seemed to confide freely in him, and said, softly,–

“Ah, if it were only wise to let him be happy. It is so bitter to deny love.”

“God knows it is!”

The exclamation broke from Hoffman as if an irrepressible impulse wrung it from him.

Helen started, and for a moment neither spoke. She collected herself soonest, and without turning, said, quietly,–

“I have been troubled by a strong impression that Casimer is not what he seems. Till he denied it on his honor I believed him to be Baron Palsdorf. Did he speak the truth when he said he was not?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“Then, Casimer Teblinski is his real name?”

No answer.

She turned sharply, and added,–

“For my cousin’s sake, I must know the truth. Several curious coincidences make me strongly suspect that he is passing under an assumed name.”

Not a word said Hoffman, but looked on the ground, as motionless and expressionless as a statue.

Helen lost patience, and in order to show how much she had discovered, rapidly told the story of the gloves, ring, handkerchief, prayer-book and collar, omitting all hint of the girlish romance they had woven about these things.

As she ended, Hoffman looked up with a curious expression, in which confusion, amusement, admiration and annoyance seemed to contend.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, gravely, “I am about to prove to you that I feel honored by the confidence you place in me. I cannot break my word, but I will confess to you that Casimer does not bear his own name.”

“I knew it!” said Helen, with a flash of triumph in her eyes. “He is the baron, and no Pole. You Germans love masquerades and jokes. This is one, but I must spoil it before it is played out.”

“Pardon; mademoiselle is keen, but in this she is mistaken. Casimer is not the baron; he did fight for Poland, and his name is known and honored there. Of this I solemnly assure you.”

She stood up and looked him straight in the face. He met her eye to eye, and never wavered till her own fell.

She mused a few minutes, entirely forgetful of herself in her eagerness to solve the mystery.

Hoffman stood so near that her dress touched him, and the wind blew her scarf against his hand; and as she thought he watched her while his eyes kindled, his color rose, and once he opened his lips to speak, but she moved at the instant, and exclaimed,–

“I have it!”

“Now for it,” he muttered, as if preparing for some new surprise or attack.

“When uncle used to talk about the Polish revolution, there was, I remember a gallant young Pole who did something brave. The name just flashed on me, and it clears up my doubts. Stanislas Prakora–‘S.P.’–and Casimer is the man.”

Helen spoke with an eager, bright face, as if sure of the truth now; but, to her surprise, Hoffman laughed, a short, irrepressible laugh, full of hearty but brief merriment. He sobered in a breath, and with an entire change of countenance said, in an embarrassed tone,–

“Pardon my rudeness; mademoiselle’s acuteness threw me off my guard. I can say nothing till released from my promise; but mademoiselle may rest assured that Casimer Teblinski is as good and brave a man as Stanislas Prakora.”