A BLOW IS STRUCK
I was not greatly surprised to find the Count in the village. The
question which exercised my mind for the rest of the way to Schönvalhof
was whether he had any connexion with Professor Seemarsh. I should have
liked to have kept watch upon the wily Count, only it seemed much more
necessary to lose no time in putting my friends on their guard, since
the fellow's presence could mean nothing but danger. Thinking over the
events of that afternoon I was half inclined to acquit the Professor
of any sinister intention. The fall of rock might have been a pure
accident, which no one could have foreseen: such displacements are of
periodical occurrence, and chance had led me to the spot at one of the
critical moments when Nature's alarum was set to strike.
As to the Professor's apparent callousness, why--perhaps the conduct of
hide-bound scientists was not to be judged by that of other men. In the
interests of their pursuit they are inclined to hold life cheap, brute
or human, their own or any one else's. So I had still an open mind as
to the Professor when I reached the house.
I told the men of my having seen Furello. They did not show as much
alarm as might have been expected, having, perhaps, made up their minds
to the worst.
"It is always a relief in an affair of this sort when our opponent
shows his hand. Now that we are forewarned we can take our measures
accordingly."
"I suppose we may look for a visit from the Count any minute now," Von
Lindheim observed.
"I wonder what his excuse for a call will be?" said Szalay.
"The Jaguar's emissaries need little excuse," the other returned
gloomily.
"You had better leave _il Conte_ to me," I suggested, "if he does call.
You are too ill to receive him; and I will do my best to throw dust in
his eyes. It is doubtful whether he knows that Szalay is here."
"The Chancellor knows everything."
"If he does it shall not be our fault. This amiable assassin will not
see our friend if there is a hiding-place in the house."
We discussed our plan of defence, and then, feeling a strong desire
to keep watch upon the Count, I went off again towards the village.
Avoiding the road I struck into a wooded path, keeping as much under
cover as possible. It was well that I did so. When about half-way to
the village I caught sight of a well-known figure crossing a field.
Furello. He was walking fast, hurrying it seemed, and smoking a cigar.
From my screen within the fringe of a small wood I had a full view
of him without the risk of being noticed. The ground he crossed was
undulating. He ran down the little hills, and once or twice halted
on the top of an ascent to look round. Presently, when he had gone a
safe distance, I came out of my shelter and followed him. Knowing the
country probably better than he, I was able to keep him in sight at
no great distance, marking him from the other side of a straggling
hedge. Soon he came in view of Von Lindheim's house, peeping out from
the trees on the hill above us. He stopped a few moments looking at
it, then glanced round, made a peculiar gesture, perhaps of contempt,
shaking his hand at the house, and hurried on.
"He is going to the railway station," I said to myself, and so it
proved. Following him as closely as I dared, I was in time to see him
get into a train and take his departure in the direction of Buyda.
"So far good," I exclaimed, turning back. "It is as well I saw my
gentleman off, or we should have been worrying as to what had become of
him. But what has he been doing here?"
Speculation on that head was manifestly futile. The two men were
relieved to hear of his departure, although much exercised to know what
agency he had left behind him. We dined and made ourselves as happy
as our forebodings would allow. After dinner we opened a packet of
newspapers which had arrived, and proceeded to post ourselves in the
doings of the outside world. I was deep in a week-old _Times_, when a
sudden exclamation from Von Lindheim made me look up.
"Tyrrell!" he cried, "what, in Heaven's name, does this mean?"
"What?"
"Listen." He read from the paper as follows:--
"Accident to an Englishman on the Alps. A party of Englishmen were
ascending the Weisshorn on Tuesday last. While attempting to scale
a difficult peak, one of the party, who were roped together, lost
his footing, and, the rope being slack, the shock of his fall was
communicated with violence to the rest of his companions. The whole
party fell a considerable distance, but happily were saved from going
to certain death by the strenuous exertions of their two guides,
Jean Koller and Barthelmy Reiss. One of the party was the well-known
Alpine climber, Professor Seemarsh, of London, who sustained a broken
collar-bone."
Szalay and I had by a common impulse sprung to our feet.
"Professor Seemarsh!" I snatched the paper and read the name for
myself. "There is only one Professor Seemarsh. Then who is this man?"
Von Lindheim's answer was a hopeless shrug.
"On Tuesday last we know that Professor Seemarsh, the Alpine climber,
or the man who calls himself by that name, was here in this village,
hundreds of miles away from the Weisshorn. And whatever injury he may
or may not have received, it is certainly not a broken collar-bone."
"It is as I have suspected," Szalay said gloomily.
For some moments neither of us spoke. All my suspicions now came back
as certainties, and I could properly appreciate the escape I had had
that afternoon. Von Lindheim laughed grimly. "To think that we have had
the scoundrel in this very house. It is a wonder I am yet alive. He did
not come here for nothing, you may swear."
"But for what?"
"Time will show, if we are only in a position to comprehend it."
"Let us at least be thankful," said I, "that chance has shown us our
danger. We shall know our enemy now when we see him. You are right,
Lindheim, about the Professor's accent. But we must confess they played
their parts well. The girl! What a life! No wonder she occasionally
breaks out into cynical bitterness that is almost startling."
Reviewing the conduct of the _soi-disants_ Seemarshes, I now related
how they had roused my suspicions when they pretended to have missed
their way upstairs. Szalay, as he listened, looked uncomfortable,
almost terrified.
"That accounts," said he blankly, "for something which happened
yesterday, and which I could not make out at the time. I was sitting
in my room reading when the door suddenly opened. Naturally, I turned
quickly to see who it was, but as I did so it was shut quickly again,
not so quickly, though, but that I fancied I had caught a glimpse of a
woman's dress. Imagining it had been Frau Pabst I thought little more
of the matter, but now I know--it must have been that girl spy, and my
whereabouts is no longer a secret."
"Then the sooner we make a move from here the better," said Von
Lindheim. "It is sheer madness to stay waiting the assassin's blow.
To-morrow morning--Tyrrell, will you come with us?"
Of course I would. We sat up late arranging our plans and making
preparations for our journey. Our idea was to make, at all hazards, a
rush for the frontier. The plan at the best was full of danger, but at
least it was no worse than staying where we were, marked down by these
secret enemies. Anyhow, it meant action, relief from the strain of
suspense, which was becoming intolerable.
So we laid our plans for the morrow, little dreaming with all our
apprehensions what the night would bring forth.
It was past midnight when we turned in, having had much to do in
preparing for an early setting out to run the gauntlet of Rallenstein's
myrmidons. Exciting as the day's events had been, I lay but a short
time, being pretty tired, before going off into a sound sleep; to be
awoke with a start, having a confused idea of a cry in my ears. It was
just growing light. Hardly had I collected my faculties when the cry
rang again through the house, again and again, kept up in a series
of screams of terror. I sprang out of bed, snatching up my revolver.
Before I could reach the door I heard Von Lindheim's voice calling my
name.
Shouting "All right!" I dashed along the passage to his room, which was
divided only by a small dressing-room from Szalay's. I met Von Lindheim
at the door.
"What is wrong?" I cried.
He was in a terrible state of excitement. "Szalay," was all he could
gasp. "Take me away before I go mad."
The poor fellow, I could see, was beside himself with something worse
than fear. A strange noise came from Szalay's room, a horrible,
inarticulate sound of a man struggling, as it were, to call out
something. Thinking he was being strangled, I rushed in with my
revolver ready.
To my astonishment he was alone, standing in the middle of the room,
but so horribly altered that I hardly recognized him as the same man
to whom I had bidden good-night a few hours before. His face was
distorted, its colour changed, the sanguine, ruddy complexion being
now a dark grey; the features seemed bloated, and the eyes glared with
almost maniacal terror. The aspect of our poor friend was so appalling
that the sight seemed to take all the strength from me as I stood
before him under the thrill of this hideous experience. I would far
rather have found the room full of armed cut-throats than containing
this solitary pitiable victim.
"Szalay!" I cried at length. "What has happened?"
As he tried to answer a spasm seemed to catch his throat. He pointed
with an unnatural, mad gesture to the open window, trying to talk,
but the power of enunciation had failed him, he could produce only
inarticulate gibberish. He threw up his hands in despair and shrieked
again. I seemed to catch the words, "Dead man! Dead man!"
Then he rushed to the looking-glass. At the reflection of his face he
recoiled with a scream, and flung himself prone on the bed.
I went to the door and found Von Lindheim outside.
"What is this fearful thing? What has happened to him?" I asked.
He shook his head. "I know no more than you," he said in a frightened
whisper. "I heard him shriek, rushed in and saw"--he shuddered--"what
you have seen. Those devils have got in and have done for him."
"You saw no one?"
"No. But they will come. They are here, Tyrrell. I am going to put a
bullet through my brain. It is better than that."
"Don't be a fool," I said, and went back into the room.
Szalay was lying as I had left him. I spoke his name, but he returned
no answer, made no movement. Nerving myself, I went up and lifted the
outstretched arm. It was heavy and lifeless. I felt for the pulse;
there was none. Then I went back to Von Lindheim and told him:
"He is dead."