was a person of some authority, he had formed a mental picture of her as a woman of mature years, perhaps somewhat younger than his wife, possibly a shade less determined in her attitudes, but probably with a very similar view of men, manners, times, and opinions.

As they walked beside Mavronides, down staircases and through one corridor after another, he rehearsed what he would say when he was introduced. Like his grandfather, who had guided many a crowned head into the Alpine vastnesses, he would first bow—gracefully but independently as befitted a true Swiss—then he would murmur, Küss die hand, Serene Highness, and if she offered him her hand, would keep his promise as aristocratically as any archduke.

Unhappily all these good intentions came to naught. They entered ashe feared the alchemist—made her way to his turret quarters. She knocked timidly on his dark door.

"Go away!" his hoarse voice replied. "Whoever you may be, begone!"

Niobe knocked again, even more nervously. "B-but Meister Gansfleisch," she called out, "I—I come from the Princess. She's sent for you. You must come right away!"

There was silence, interrupted by muttering and an indignant squeaking. "Very well," Meister Gansfleisch called back, "if she has ordered it, then I will come. But it will take me a few minutes to make ready. Wait for me."

Niobe waited, listening to more squeaking and scurrying from within. As a matter of fact, she had arrived at a critical juncture. After his latest interview with his employer, the alchemist, overcome by despair and despondency, had finally succumbed