“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.”
Helen’s eyes sparkled, for in this reluctant reply she read confirmation
of her suspicion, and thought that Amy would rejoice to learn that her
lover was a hero.
“You _are_ exiles but, still hope and plot, and never relinquish your
heart’s desire?”
“Never, mademoiselle!”
“You are in danger?”
“In daily peril of losing all we most love and long for,” answered Karl,
with such passion that Helen found patriotism a lovely and inspiring
thing.
“You have enemies?” she asked, unable to control her interest, and
feeling the charm of these confidences.
“Alas! yes,” was the mournful reply, as Karl dropped his eyes to hide
the curious expression of mirth which he could not banish from them.
“Can you not conquer them, or escape the danger they place you in?”
“We hope to conquer, we cannot escape.”
“This accounts for your disguise and Casimer’s false name?”
“Yes. We beg that mademoiselle will pardon us the anxiety and perplexity
we have caused her, and hope that a time will soon arrive when we may be
ourselves. I fear the romantic interest with which the ladies have
honored us will be much lessened, but we shall still remain their most
humble and devoted servants.”