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It is by George Hanbury’s desire that this book has been made. Speaking for myself, I went into the business of which I am going to tell in much the same spirit as that in which a host turns out on a snowy night to bring in some one of his guests whose car has broken down. In a word, I set out in some annoyance, because I had other things to do: and once being in the venture, I think everyone will agree that I could hardly withdraw. No knightly emotions inspired me at any time, and, though I strove to conceal it, again and again I was frightened out of my life. The mistakes we made need no pointing out and were, I think, unpardonable: at least on one occasion my own infirmity of purpose cost us extremely dear: and that in the end we came out no worse than weary is due not so much to our persistence as to that inscrutable agent, the way of a maid.

When, one spring evening in Wiltshire, I told my friend George Hanbury that before the summer was out my wife and I should visit Austria, he threw back his head and laughed.

“I suppose you know best,” he said: “but, now that you’re married, I should recommend some less exacting vicinity. Deauville, for instance.”

Though he spoke in jest, I felt the truth of his words.

Austria seemed to be fated to be my cockpit. Three times I had visited that country and each time met with adventure of an uncommon sort: these encounters had been as exciting as any young man could have wished, but they had not been free from peril, and when a man marries, I think he loses the right to take his life in his hand. George had each time been with me, and I must confess that we courted what danger we found, or at least, being in the quarrels, made no attempt to withdraw. Still, the trouble was not of our making, and since outside that country our lives had been very peaceful, it was easy to look upon Austria as the lion’s mouth. For that reason I would not have gone there, still less have taken my wife, but, as luck would have it, I could not help myself.

The year before, I had had the honour to marry Leonie, Grand Duchess of Riechtenburg, and though she had dropped her title and always showed her displeasure if she was treated as other than a commoner’s wife, she had not parted with the duchy which she had quitted to marry me eight months before.

The duchy lay in Carinthia, and though its great house was gone, a hunting-lodge, lately restored, made a fair residence during the summer months. While much of the property was wild, there were some ten or twelve farms, and since there was no bailiff, I think only an indifferent landlord would have been willing to continue to stay away.

“We must go,” said I. “Both of us. You see, there’s the Anger estate.”

George raised his eyebrows.

“Headquarters Littai?” he said.

I nodded.

“Leonie hopes,” I said, “that you’ll come and stay.”

“I’ll come with pleasure,” said George. He drank what was left of his port and lighted a cigarette. “But I warn you that I shall go armed.”

“You can wear chain mail,” said I, “so long as you come.”

George smiled. Then he fingered his chin.

“And I’ll tell you another thing. I’m not going to Riechtenburg.”

“Make your mind easy,” said I. “Riechtenburg’s off our map.”

“I’m glad of that,” said George. “There’s nothing the matter with the country, and Vigil’s the best-looking city I ever saw. But I prefer to forget them. Possibly when good Prince Paul has drunk or kicked himself into a timely grave, I may be disposed to take another look at the place. But I doubt it. Some of the hours I spent there were very crowded, and not with ‘glorious life’, either. No, I don’t want to go back.”

“I’m with you,” I said, and meant it.

Had Leonie so chosen, she could have married Prince Paul, the ruler of Riechtenburg. They had, indeed, been betrothed for four or five years, but she had broken her engagement when he ascended the throne. For this she may be forgiven—the man was vile. Both George and I had met him and done him more than one service whilst he was heir to the throne, but his Highness had never liked us, and had we not left the country as soon as he became Prince, I think he would have used his position to do us ill. That my subsequent marriage had inflamed him there could be no doubt, and since there was happily nothing to take my wife into his realm, the thought of revisiting the country had never come into our heads.

Only two friends we had there—Sully, the Lord President of the Council, and Marya Dresden of Salm, who had been my wife’s lady-in-waiting and faithful confidante.

The Countess Dresden was young and possessed great personal charm, and though her life was not easy—for the Count had charge of Riechtenburg’s foreign affairs—she never failed to distinguish the rôle she was called upon to play. At least, so said Sully, and he was a very good judge. But now her husband was dead, to his country’s loss. No doubt she mourned him; but the Count had been her elder by thirty-one years, and, while she had been in all things a dutiful wife, the marriage had been made to serve some political purpose and had been, I fancy, little more than a matter of form. Had he lived, she would before now have been our guest: indeed, the date of her visit had been agreed when to our great disappointment his death had disordered her plans. But she was to come to Littai and stay with us there for a month, and we had some hope of bringing her back to England when autumn came in.

With George’s promise, then, the prospect we had wished was complete, and we thought no more of the matter, but turned to the end of the hunting and the call of the season in Town.

Some three months later—to be exact, on the second day of July—Leonie and I came to Littai, travelling by road. Her maid and my servant, Bell, brought our baggage by train. For a week we stayed at a farm in the village itself, and then removed to the lodge three miles away.

The lodge stood in a valley above a tumbling stream and made a more pleasant dwelling than many a larger house. A little terrace in front was shaded by chestnut trees, and here our meals were served three times in the day, for the weather was very fine and the nights were warm. The stabling was good, and a mighty coach-house was there to shelter the Rolls—this to Bell’s great content, for, though a body-servant, he cherished the car and many a time had passed the night on her cushions, because she was in some strange garage whose people he did not trust.

Of our two guests George Hanbury was the first to arrive, and, though we had been very happy, the light of his pleasant countenance did our hearts good.

George was a man of my age, that is to say, twenty-six, fair and blue-eyed. His manners were easy, he wore a lazy air, and his nature was gay: his wit was as quick and ready as mine is slow: and his friendship was like a rock which no weather, fair or foul, can ever change. To Leonie he was devoted, and she was most fond of him, and I think our relation went far to refute the proverb that three is no company.

With George came Rowley, his servant. The latter and Bell, ex-soldiers, had served us for some four years and had shared the adventures of which I have spoken above. They were true men.

If the lodge was retired, we lived in luxury. Jameson, an English butler, controlled a most willing staff, six decent saddle-horses stood in the stalls, and, since George had come out by road, we had two cars. The handsome country we had very much to ourselves, and, as we were all fond of fishing, hardly a day went by when we did not prove some water, while, if the estate did not claim us, we usually spent the day by the side of some stream.

So for two careless weeks. Then came a telegram to set our nerves tingling and shatter our peace of mind.

Leonie Chandos Littai,

Dare not come