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 his daily bread. He wore a coat of black velvet, dusty but not at all shabby; in his hand he held a gray felt hat. Dark hair circled in curls around his face, which was handsome, but from long illness or mental suffering somewhat thin and yellow. His eyes evinced scorn for his surroundings; his lips were compressed in apparent effort to stifle pain.

Glancing at the stewardess and answering her with a quiet nod, he reached into his vest pocket for a thin, white paper, handed it to her indifferently, and again looked out of the window from which he had partially turned at her appearance. Through the window, latticed with vines, he gazed on the mighty, dark ruin of the old Castle behind the garden.

The stewardess cautiously opened the letter, and, glancing at the signature, uttered an exclamation of surprise, and bowed profoundly, for she saw the signature of Countess Maria Felicia Felsenburk. It was a long time before she succeeded in spelling out the hastily written note and in comprehending its contents. As she had long been relieved of