“where do you live?” asked freyberger when they were on the road.

“we shall pass the place, and i will show you,” replied the other.

they turned to the left towards the village and walked for a moment in silence.

the stranger, despite his age and apparent infirmity, walked with a brisk step. freyberger did not lag behind.

then this conversation began between them, freyberger speaking first:

“so you have had a murder here?”

“is that so?”

“it is so, and i have come down here to arrest the murderer.”

“you are——”

“i am gustave freyberger.”

“indeed!”

“when i was talking to you in the bar, i fancied that some one was listening to me, and so i told you of my aunt—in bremen was it? and of my sister in düsseldorf.”

freyberger, as they walked, took side glances at the terrible profile of his companion rigid as the profile of the sphinx; at a sign or movement indicative of guilt he was prepared to act. he was waiting for the psychological moment.

but the stranger made neither sign nor movement, and they passed through the little village, past the post office, past the cottage, which serves as a police station. then they turned a corner, and a lonely country road lay before them.

lonely-looking would, perhaps, be a better term, for the roads about here are by no means destitute of travellers on a summer’s day.

“you do not live in the village, then?” said freyberger.

“no,” replied the other, “i live a little way down this road.”

“that is convenient,” said freyberger, “for if i am not mistaken we are going to have a storm.”

“so it would seem.”

“we can shelter at your cottage, for you live in a cottage, at least i fancy you told me so.”

“i live in a cottage, but i am unaware that i mentioned the fact.”

“ah, it must have been my imagination. it plays one tricks. i am full of imaginations and fancies to-day. for instance, in the bar a moment ago i fancied i knew your face.”

“indeed!”

“yes. i fancied there was a resemblance between you and an artist named müller, no, no, an artist named kolbecker. ah! there i am again, my memory is playing me false. upon my word, if this goes on i shall resign my position and my trade, which, after all, is a dirty trade, seeing that it is the trade of catching murderers and delivering them to the hangman. klein was the name of the artist, he was a sculptor.”

the other said nothing, his face was still immobile, but a great drop of sweat was coursing down the side of it.

the clouds were rolling in funereal masses over reading and spreading towards the southern sky. a few large drops of rain fell on the dust of the road and the occasional grumbling of thunder sounded as if from a vast distance.

the road took a turn upon itself, and there, a hundred yards or so away in front of them, well set back from the highway and half hidden by a hedge, lay a cottage.

freyberger was only waiting now to discover the living place of the man beside him before arresting him.

they were nearly level with the cottage gate, when, unperceived by freyberger, the old man’s left hand stole into the old man’s pocket.

next moment freyberger, with a gasping cry and hands outspread, fell face forward in the dust of the road—sandbagged.