tinued to unfold the roll; and now, when it lay fully open, his eye rested on the title page elaborately written in red ink. It ran thus:
of a Visit to the Various
Courts of Europe,
by
Sir John Crabtree, Baronet.’
Below was a list of chapters, each bearing the name of one of the European Courts; and among these the nineteenth and the last upon the list was dedicated to Grünewald.
‘Ah! The Court of Grünewald!’ said Otto, ‘that should be droll reading.’ And his curiosity itched for it.
‘A methodical dog, this English Baronet,’ said Gotthold. ‘Each chapter written and finished on the spot. I shall look for his work when it appears.’
‘It would be odd, now, just to glance at it,’ said Otto, wavering.
Gotthold’s brow darkened, and he looked out of window.
But though the Prince understood the reproof, his weakness prevailed. ‘I will,’ he said, with an uneasy laugh, ‘I will, I think, just glance at it.’
So saying, he resumed his seat and spread the traveller’s manuscript upon the table.
