count furello came in with a bow, then, advancing, bent low over the baroness’s hand.

“this is a surprise, count,” she said, quite herself again. “we heard you were away from buyda.”

“i have been travelling, and am here only till to-morrow. but i could not pass through without paying my respects to the baroness fornbach.”

when he spoke the tightly stretched lips drew away, leaving the abnormally white teeth bare. he was most polite, but not pretty.

he then turned and bowed ceremoniously to me, apparently quite aware of my presence, although he had not seemed to look in my direction.

“you are still in buyda, mr. tyrrell. we had an idea you had left us.”

“for a time,” i replied lightly. “as becomes a wandering devotee of sport.”

“sport! and you leave england?”

“for change.”

“ah! like so many of your countrymen you are hard to satisfy. you would rather go far and fare worse than stay at home. well, enterprise at the possible expense of comfort is admirable. dare one conclude that our city here temporarily pleases you?”

i looked at him sharply, uncertain whether his speech was mere polite small-talk or covert sarcasm. not that i cared, except so far as it interested me to [pg 119]note the various phases of the man’s character. the peculiar expression of his face made a perfect mask, far harder to see through even than rallenstein’s impassiveness. there was, perhaps, the gleam of a sneer in the eyes—those unruly tell-tales, ever ready to contradict our words and betray us. but i was not certain, and answered simply:

“yes, i enjoyed a few weeks’ sojourn in buyda extremely. for the last week or two i have been staying a short way out in the country with a friend.”

count furello bowed in acknowledgment, as it were, of a piece of information which did not interest him deeply enough for words.

“you have not come, then, from the geierthal, count?” the baroness inquired.

“no; i have been travelling. i hope to return home to-morrow.”

travelling! on the devil’s business, indeed.

the baroness turned to me. “count furello has a most picturesque home, an ancient monastery on an island, and in most lovely country.”

the teeth gleamed. “scarcely on an island, gn?dige baronin,” he objected deferentially, “although practically it is so. the moat surrounding the monastery has overflowed and enlarged itself to such an extent that the building seems to stand on an island in the midst of a lake.”

“a very charming spot,” the other lady observed.

“is it far from here?” i asked, affecting less interest than i felt.

“about forty miles.”

i rose to take my leave. the baroness gave me a little significant pressure of the hand, which i understood and returned.

“i should be charmed to show herr tyrrell the hospitality of the geierthal, and to afford him a few days’ sport,” the count said, a little stiffly and half-heartedly, [pg 120] it seemed, for the man of such exuberant politeness. “we shall have a fair amount of game; but unfortunately just now i am only at home for a day on the business of my estate. if herr tyrrell could honour me in perhaps a month or two’s time, it would be all that i could wish.”

“i fear i shall have resumed my travels,” i replied. “if i had been going to make a longer stay in your country, i should have been delighted.”

“i regret,” said he, bowing again, “that my enforced absence from home deprives me of so great a pleasure.”

his manner was becoming almost oppressive; indeed, i was relieved when i had closed the door between us. nothing else had passed between the baroness and me; it was evident, that she regarded the count as an object of fear; indeed, it could hardly have been otherwise.

time had slipped away, and the summer evening was advanced when i turned towards my hotel. as it promised to be a fine moonlight night, i, after some hesitation, determined to dine at once and ride out afterwards to sch?nval. while waiting for dinner, i got into conversation with mine host, a bustling, talkative fellow. i was not much in the humour for the chatter of the man in the street, still, it was rather a relief after the strain of the afternoon’s critical fencing.

presently i asked him, the matter being uppermost in my mind, about the drowning of fr?ulein von winterstein, and whether the body had been found.

“no,” he said, “although they are searching the river for miles. but the task is not so easy, mein herr. there are known to be great rocks in that part of the river’s bed—the country is rocky there—and what so likely as that the poor lady, falling from [pg 121]that height, never rose again, but was swept by the strong current under one of those rocks, where she may lie till the day of judgment. well, it is a mystery we cannot understand—the chances of life and death. a greatly admired lady, mein herr, young, beautiful, with a long and happy life before her, as we might think, one hour, and in the next gone in a moment into eternity, no trace left, as one might say, to show she had ever existed. it is a great enigma, mein herr, and, if you please, your dinner is ready.”

the solution of the enigma which i thought i held was not calculated to add relish to the meal. i made a bad dinner; the bustle of the room only accentuating the contrast of the common-place life with its sinister background. i lighted a cigar, and ordered my horse to be brought round in ten minutes’ time. then, and only then, for other thoughts had been all-absorbing, i remembered the letter i had left with the consul. “what a fool i am!” i exclaimed. “in another minute i should have gone off and forgotten that, probably remembered it towards my journey’s end, and had to ride back for fear of complications.” so i sent word to have my horse kept in the stable against my return, and went off on foot to the consul’s.

he seemed rather relieved to see me, or, perhaps at not having to act on my instructions. “you have called for your letter? i wondered how soon you would come back for it.” he unlocked the drawer and gave it me.

“i dare say you are glad to get rid of it. don’t think me eccentric, only i fancied i might be going to run a certain risk this afternoon, and the fact that word of my whereabouts had been left with you might have been a trump card to play.”

turnour gave me a look of comprehension. “won’t you stay and smoke a cigar with me?”

[pg 122]

“no, thank you. i would, but am riding back to sch?nval to-night.”

he looked surprised. “a long ride.”

“and a lovely night. i shall enjoy it. by the way, turnour, do you know anything of count furello?”

he looked curiously at me and laughed gently. “you are not riding with him?”

“oh, no. why?”

“nothing. he is a naturalized german. his father was an impecunious italian count, who came to these parts fortune hunting, and married a native heiress; at least, so we’ve heard. he has an estate in the geierthal.”

“yes, i know. anything more?”

“nothing, except that he is a great friend, some say”—he lowered his voice—“some say a creature, an ame damnée of rallenstein’s.”

“ah! that’s everything. i guessed as much. he is rather a character,” i said guardedly.

“h’m! yes. i don’t presume to offer you advice, but were i in your place, i should not get too thick with il conte.”

i nodded, thanked him, and went off.

i have often wondered since at the reality of the fate or providence which ordained that i should forget that letter till the last minute before my intended start. at the moment i was annoyed at having let it slip my memory, and so omitted to utilize in fetching it the time i wasted in waiting for dinner. and yet, had i done so, i should have missed the extraordinary series of adventures, and something more, which that chance forgetfulness threw in my way.

for as i was retracing my steps from the consul’s house to my hotel, a most startling thing happened.

it was now dark. the purely residential streets of the city were more or less deserted, and the houses [pg 123]closed for the night. i walked through a square and into a tree-lined street of old houses leading out of it in the direction of the k?nigstrasse.

i hardly know what made me stop, hesitate and cross the road at a particular point about midway up the street. my mind was busy with thoughts and plans, and my steps seem to have taken me across the road mechanically, without any definite design. but considering the consequences of that trivial act, i have always set it down to something stronger and more occult than mere chance. i remember casually noticing that the house towards which i crossed was lighted up, one of the first floor windows was open, and from it came the sound of a pianoforte. as i reached the kerb i was startled from my thoughts by an object which fell with a sharp click upon the pavement at my feet.

a small white fan.

i picked it up and looked round. no one was near. then up at the house before which i was standing. there was nothing to be seen at the windows to indicate where the fan had dropped from; no shadow on the blinds, no movement to be seen within. stepping back to look up, i noticed that one of the top windows was half-open, but there seemed no light in the room, and no sign of any one there. then i looked at the fan in my hand. a plain but good one of white silk with ivory ribs. too good at least to admit the suggestion that it had been deliberately thrown away as worthless. it had evidently been accidentally dropped out of the window, and i stood there momentarily expecting the door to open and a servant to come out and seek it. but no one came; so, after waiting awhile, i went up to the door, and rang.

standing there ready to give in the fan with a word of explanation, i began to open and shut it [pg 124]carelessly, as, when waiting, one will fidget with the thing nearest to one’s hand. as in doing this, the light from above the door fell upon it, my casual glance was arrested by something i had not noticed before. there was pencilled writing across the fan. as i turned and held it up closer to read the words, footsteps sounded within, and i had scarcely made out the purport of the writing when the door opened. simultaneously by a quick movement i closed the fan and dropped my hand, so that it was hidden behind me.

“does herr steinmetz live here?” i stammered, using the first name that came to my tongue.

“no, mein herr,” the servant answered, a dark, disagreeable-looking fellow, i thought, holding the door but a little way open and regarding me with manifest suspicion.

“you do not know which is the number? no? thank you. i am sorry to have troubled you.”

next moment the door was shut with a slam and i was walking away down the street. at the second lamp i stopped, then took out the fan to read the words more carefully. they were these, scribbled as though in haste:

“i am in danger of my life. help me. asta von winterstein.”