A WORD OF WARNING
I walked along the Königstrasse, the principal street of Buyda,
reflecting on my interview, and wondering how far I could trust the
assurance of the Chancellor's last words. His was one of those complex
characters, so hopelessly difficult to understand, that I felt it an
even chance whether his word was to be trusted or disbelieved.
Anyhow, I persuaded myself that my visit had done no harm, and there
was just the likelihood that his purpose might relax with regard to
Von Lindheim. How far I was justified in this idea the sequel will
show. But chance certainly made the journey to Buyda one of the most
momentous of my life.
My reflections were interrupted by a man who came quickly up from
behind, touched his hat and addressed me. A man in livery. He said
that the Baroness Fornbach would like to speak to me. She was in her
carriage a few yards down on the other side of the street. After
a moment's hesitation I followed the man. If I had my doubts and
suspicions about the Baroness I was yet somewhat inclined, remembering
her half confidences on the evening I had supped with her, to try
whether I could get any information from her about the Chancellor. At
the same time I resolved to walk warily.
The Baroness gave me a friendly greeting, asked as to my plans, where
I had been, how long my stay in Buyda was to last, and on learning of
my immediate departure insisted on my accompanying her home for a cup
of tea. As there was not much chance of my learning anything important
in the open street and in the presence of a lady who was with her, I
accepted the invitation and got into the carriage.
"I don't care for tea, but shall be delighted to have half an hour's
chat with you," I said.
"That's well. I know you English are faddy about spoiling your
dinners," she returned with a laugh as we drove off.
After tea the Baroness's companion disappeared, and I was free to begin
my questions. As to whether they would be satisfactorily answered or
not I was doubtful, but anyhow I would make the attempt.
"I am interested and puzzled by the fate of that poor fellow Von
Orsova, whom I was to have met the very evening of his death. Can you
throw any light upon it, Baroness? In the country one hears nothing but
bare facts."
Affecting to speak more or less carelessly I was watching her narrowly,
and saw that at my question she "clinched" a little. All that was meant
for me to see, however, was a shrug as she answered:
"Who knows? No one precisely. But we all guess. A love affair is the
most natural solution."
"With whom?"
She laughed. "My dear Herr Tyrrell, you know as much as I do."
"Of course, Baroness, if you choose to play the Sphinx----"
"It is safest."
"Can you not trust me?"
She smiled, this time a little bitterly. "I have long ago ceased to
trust anybody. But, really, and truly, I know no more than you."
I bowed. "You shall not tell me a word more than you wish, only-----"
"You are as curious as a woman."
"Curious? No. My feeling was more serious than that. Let me tell you
our friend Von Lindheim is concerned at the deaths that have occurred
among the staff of the Chancellerie."
"Naturally. They were friends of his."
"Not only that. He fears a like fate may strike him."
"His nerves are upset. He has been ill, has he not?"
"He is lucky to have been no worse," I said cautiously.
"He has never imbued you with his fears?" she asked in a tone of
raillery.
"Not for myself, but for him. I have seen the Chancellor to-day."
"Yes."
"Ah!" thought I, watching her, "that is no news to you. He assures me,"
I continued, "that Von Lindheim's fears are groundless."
"Good! Then you are satisfied?"
I leant forward. "Baroness, tell me frankly. Do you think I may be
satisfied?"
She lay back, and took up a small fan from the table at her hand.
"How can I tell? Why do you ask me? Can I guarantee his Excellency's
word?"
"You may be my friend in this place where I have no friends, and advise
me."
A peculiar expression came over her face, a look that I cannot
describe, a look of inexpressible bitterness and regret, struggling as
it were to get through the mask which her part obliged her to wear.
"I?"
"You, Baroness," I said significantly.
"I hope I am always your friend," she replied.
"And as a friend your advice is----"
"I have none to give--on that subject."
"What then?"
She looked swiftly, almost fearfully, round the room. She was holding
the little black fan--I see her now--tightly in her clenched hands. She
threw it down, and clasped her hands over her knees, leaning forward
and speaking in her usual tone, but as low as a whisper.
"My advice to you, Herr Tyrrell, is to leave this country. You may be
safe as yet. But you have been ill-advised in interesting yourself in
other men's affairs. We are under an iron will here, and it makes sure."
"You brought me here to tell me that?"
To my intense surprise her eyes filled with tears. She looked away.
"Don't ask me that, don't ask me that," she returned passionately, but
always in a low voice. "Be thankful that you are free to go, and pity
us who are not."
She put her handkerchief to her eyes. I rose, and stood leaning my
elbow on the mantelpiece. There was silence; a little clock by me
chimed six. Then I said:
"I am sorry to have asked you a distressing question. The more that it
was perhaps unnecessary. For I know----"
She rose quickly, stopping me by a gesture of her outstretched hand.
"Don't tell me! Don't tell me!" she cried under her breath. "Say you
know nothing. Your life may depend upon it."
"Baroness!" I cried, almost appalled as I realized the truth of her
position.
"I trust you," she went on with the same vehemence, intensified by the
restraint she put upon her voice, "for I know you can be staunch and
true; you are as far above all the tricks and treachery in which we
live here as heaven from hell--I trust you, Englishman, with my life.
Yes. For if it were known that I had spoken to you like this I should
share the fate of Asta von Winterstein."
I started. "Asta von Winterstein?" Of course I remembered the girl,
the favourite Maid of Honour to the Princess, and my fascinating
partner at the State ball. She, naturally, had been in the secret, and
when I recalled that lovely animated face, the girl's merry laugh and
overflowing spirits, I shuddered. "Has anything happened to her?" I
scarcely dared put the question.
The Baroness looked at me in surprise. She was quite herself now, and
spoke with her usual calm. "Have you not heard? It was in the papers.
Fräulein von Winterstein was returning after dark from an excursion to
Salenberg. The coachman missed his way, and overturned the carriage in
the narrow pass above the river. It fell down the steep side into the
water. The driver threw himself off the box and escaped by a miracle,
but poor Asta went to her death."
Her tone was quite impassive, as she would have related the occurrence
at a dinner party. I felt a sensation almost of horror at the
deliberate methods of this man-tiger, Rallenstein.
"Horrible! Horrible!"
"I believe the poor girl's body has not yet been recovered," she
continued with the same repression of all feeling which I could well
understand and sympathize with. "The river is deep and swift in that
gorge, and she may have been carried down for miles. Her mother is
almost distracted, her father, General von Winterstein, is abroad, and
the news will hardly have reached him. Poor man! He can do nothing."
As she spoke the last words she looked at me significantly. We
understood each other. No more was needed.
"You may trust me," I said in a low voice.
Her hand touched mine. I was about to raise it to my lips when she
snatched it away. "Hush!" she murmured warningly.
The door opened, and the other lady came in.
"Count Furello is here, my dear. I thought I would tell you."
The announcement was made in such a curious manner that I turned
inquiringly to the Baroness. She gave just the suggestion of a shake of
the head, and I barely caught the whisper, "Go, as soon as you can."
Next moment the Count was shown in.