"Is he? Well, he seems to be a friend of
Rosenheim's also. He says the poor fellow is
terribly cut up, and vows he will sell everything
he has in the world to make up the
value of the stolen goods, rather than rest under
any shade of suspicion, if they can't be traced.
But, at any rate, Laurier thoroughly believes
in Fritz's honesty."

"Yes, yes, yes; of course he does. He
spent an evening with him here, in this very
kitchen," said Josef, with a touch of importance
in his manner, and omitting, with
characteristic inaccuracy, to state that it was
Fritz who had brought the courier to the
Golden Lamb.

"But, Herr Ebner," said Kätchen, timidly,
"please what is the good news about the value
of the box?"

"The good news, Kätchen, is, that the box,
which, it appears, was a dressing-case,
contained only a few trinkets of trifling value,
and a sum of money in napoleons—French gold
coin, you know. The lady removed the rest
of her jewels at the last moment, being
unwilling to trust them out of her sight."

Then Ebner went on to explain that Laurier
had left the travellers with whom he had journeyed
as far as Salzburg, and had been
engaged by the owners of the missing box to
accompany them to Vienna. It had been his own
proposition to come over to Gossau for a day
and make inquiries.

"I fancy," said Ebner, "that he has got
scent of something that may lead to discovery.
But he's a shrewd close fellow, and keeps his
tongue between his teeth; and it's as well to
follow his example in this matter."

Caspar Ebner had seen enough of the landlord
of the Golden Lamb to be quite aware that
there was but one chance of ensuring Kester's
being discreetly silent on any subject—namely,
to keep him as ignorant of it as might be.
Otherwise, it is possible Ebner could have been
more communicative had he so chosen. Kätchen
had been sitting silent and attentive. Suddenly,
when Ebner, looking at his big silver watch,
declared that it was time for him to go, she
jumped up, and asked, anxiously, "Then how
much do you think Fritz will have to pay,
if the box is not found after all?"

"Tut, tut," said her father, testily; for he
had been a little annoyed at the reserved tone
which Ebner had assumed. "Women's
curiosity is never satisfied. Do you think we are
going to give you the particulars at full length,
just that you may run all over Gossau to-morrow
with your tongue going like a mill-clack?
You'll know all that's needful for you to know
in good time, my lass."

Under other circumstances, this speech would
have elicited a tart retort, and possibly an
unpleasant and unfilial display of temper; but
now Kätchen only turned her large blue eyes
on Ebner with an eager questioning gaze, and
made no reply.

"I think we might venture to trust Mam'sell
Kätchen with an answer to her question," said
Ebner, quietly; "but as far as I am concerned,
it is impossible. I don't know the amount of
the sum contained in the dressing-case."

Then he took his leave, and went away with
a sorrowful conviction at his heart that Kätchen
never would love him, and that she did love
Fritz Rosenheim very dearly. And yet Ebner
felt a glow of pleasure at the recollection of
the way she had kissed his hand and praised his
goodness, and he drew in his inmost mind that
he had never before stood so high in Kätchen's
estimation as he did that night.

"I've conquered her in one way, if I can't in
another," thought he. "She'll never laugh at
me again, at all events." Caspar Ebner had
never admitted to himself the possibility of his
love appearing ridiculous in Kätchen's eyes, so
long as he retained any hope of winning her.
But now he confessed that she had laughed at him;
so I suppose he must have known it all along.

As to Kätchen, she went into her own little
room, and, wrapping her cloak around her, sat
down on the side of her bed, and meditated on
many things. She sat quite still for more than
an hour, until the oil in her lamp was nearly
exhausted and the wick began to sputter. She
roused herself with a start, and knitting her
flaxen eyebrows sternly, said aloud, "I will.
Yes; I will, I'm determined." Kätchen had
evidently taken a great resolution. Then she lay
down, and fell into a deep and childlike slumber.

The wintry sun was faintly struggling to
pierce a heavy mass of snow-laden clouds,
when, on the following morning, Laurier—who
was up betimes—issued forth from the
hostelry of the Black Eagle. The clue, whatever
it was, which the courier had got as to the fate
of the leather-covered box, led him to climb to
a very considerable height among the pinewoods
behind Gossau, and to spend the greater
part of the forenoon in hanging about the sawmills
and watching a couple of charcoal-burners
loading a miserable pony with canvas sacks.
About one o'clock, Laurier went back to his
inn to dinner, and then, having lighted his
meerschaum, strolled leisurely down to Kester's
house. The courier could afford to walk leisurely
despite the keen air, for he was comfortably
wrapped in a fur-lined coat, and wore a travelling-cap
with side-flaps coming over his ears, and
altogether looked very thoroughly protected
from the inclemency of the season. But the
protection served also in a great measure as a
disguise; so that when Laurier entered the
kitchen of the Golden Lamb, where Kester was
sitting, the latter did not at once recognise his
visitor, but stood up and saluted him as a
stranger, with such measure of respect as
appeared due to the fur-lined coat and the
travelling-cap. Before making himself known to
his host, Laurier glanced sharply round the large
room, as though to assure himself that there
was no other person present. Then he unfastened
the flaps which nearly covered his face,
threw open the heavy coat, and held out his
hand to Kester with a friendly gesture. Old
Josef was somewhat taken aback on recognising
the courier, and put an extra touch of patronage
into his greeting, to make up for the low bow