And now a few words of explanation before I put down my pen.
It was only after the most careful inquiries had been made, and when we had put together the various items of information we had been able to obtain, that we were in a position to derive any notion as to how, where, and why the dastardly plot, that had caused me so much unhappiness, had been carried out. That Max had not shot Moreas in Brazil, as he had imagined, was only too certain; though how the latter managed to escape from the plain, and ultimately to track his enemy to Zaarfburg, is not quite clear. One thing is certain, however. He must have discovered Rodriguez, possibly in Rio de Janeiro, have heard from him of the curious marks Max had cut upon his chest, after leaving the plain, and having convinced himself that they referred to the cache of diamonds, he had determined to spare no effort to get possession of the information he required. Unfortunately for his own schemes, he fell ill in Pannonia, _en route_ to Zaarfburg. Finding himself unable to push on, Rodriguez was dispatched to the city in hot haste. On the night of his arrival the body was stolen from the clockmaker's house, with the assistance of one of the family, who had been heavily bribed. Pretending that it was the body of his brother, who had perished in the war, he brought it to the capital, and to the house where Moreas lay hidden in the Buchengasse. There the latter was able to read the signs, which were unintelligible to Rodriguez, for the reason that he was not familiar with the topography of that villainous plain. What happened after that is only conjecture. Doubtless, the two men had quarrelled, when Rodriguez, taking advantage of an opportunity that presented itself, stabbed the other in the back, and then fled for his life. And so ends the life story of my brother, the man I loved best in the world; he who, had he lived, would have been Maximilian, King of Pannonia.
And now, as it is possible there may be some who have been induced to take an interest in myself and my fortunes, let me bring my long story to a close by saying that if there is any country in Europe that boasts a happier sovereign than does Pannonia, I do not know it. No man's life, however, is altogether free from trouble; but in these days, thank God, I fancy I have less than most men. I have a good wife and happy, healthy children, the eldest of whom, little Max, bids fair to equal his ever-lamented uncle, the National Hero, in disposition and good looks. In one thing, however, he differs from poor Max; low down between his eyebrows are two curious little lines, that form something not unlike a cross.