The duke opened the locket, looked long and steadfastly at the
portrait, and shut it. Then he went to the drawer again and returned
with the counterparts. He laid them side by side. The likeness was
perfect in all details.
"Carmichael," he said, "will you please help me? My eyes are growing
old. Do I see these things, or do I not? And if I do, which is mine, and
what does this signify?" The tremor in his voice was audible.
Grumbach answered. "This, Highness. I took these from the little
princess with my own hands. They have never been out of my keeping.
Those you have I know nothing about."
The duke rubbed his eyes. "My daughter?"
"The Princess Hildegarde is not your daughter, Highness," said Hans
solemnly.
"_Gott_!" The duke smote the desk in despair, a despair which wrung the
hearts of those who witnessed it. "Herbeck! I must send for Herbeck!"
"Not yet, Highness; later," Grumbach said.
"But if not Hildegarde--I believe I must be growing mad!"
"Patience, your Highness!" said Carmichael.
"Patience!" wearily. "You say patience when my heart is dying inside my
breast? Patience? Who, then, is this woman I have called my child?"
"God knows, Highness!" Hans stood bowed before this parental agony.
"But what proof have you that she is not? What proof, I say?"
"Would there be two lockets, Highness?"
"More proof than this will be needed.
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