I was sure that she had gained all her information concerning Max from my letters to Hymbercourt.
It racks a man's brain to play shuttlecock with it in that fashion.
While I lay in bed trying to sleep, I thought of the meeting between the duke and the princess at the Postern, and back again flew my mind to the conviction that Yolanda was not, and could not possibly be, the Princess Mary.

For days I had been able to think on no other subject.

One moment she was Yolanda; the next she was the princess; and the next I did not know who she was.

Surely the riddle would drive me mad.

The fate of nations--but, infinitely more important to me, the fate of Max--depended upon its solution.
Castleman had told us to remain at the inn until his return, and had exacted from Max, as you will remember, a promise not to visit the House under the Wall, which we had learned was the home of our burgher friend.
We therefore spent our days and evenings in Grote's garden near the banks of the river Cologne.
One afternoon, while we were sitting at a table sipping wine under the shade of a tree near the river bank, Max said:-- "I have enjoyed every day of our journey, Karl.