THE LIVING DEAD
ASTA VON WINTERSTEIN!
I wondered for a moment whether I was not dreaming. I read the words
over twice again, searched the fan for others, and finding none, thrust
it into my pocket. Then I went back to the house, crossing the road the
better to survey it from the other side of the street.
Asta von Winterstein! But she was dead, killed in that premeditated
accident on the Salenberg road. Or, perhaps, was this another trick
of the Chancellor's, and was she alive after all? Or had the attempt
failed, and in place of the merciful swiftness of that rush into
eternity had she escaped to endure the longer agony of the fear of a
death sure, yet uncertain as to its time and manner? I knew well enough
from Szalay's and Lindheim's cases what that meant. I could believe
anything of Rallenstein the Jaguar, anything. Nothing could surprise
me, nothing seemed improbable.
I walked quickly along the street till I came to the portico of a
great house at the end. Here, sheltered from observation, I took out
the fan and re-read the fateful sentence. It fascinated me. I could
not keep my eyes from it. The poor girl's face and form came back to
my mind, vividly, now, as I had seen her at the dance. I hardly dared
to think of the unspeakable agony that house might enclose. What could
I do? I was worse than helpless; a stranger, in a country where the
government was a law unto itself. I went back to the house, looking
eagerly for a sign that I might act upon. No one was to be seen at any
of the windows, though the piano still sounded. Ugh! it set my teeth
on edge. A waltz was being played softly; a dance of death, indeed! I
walked up and down the street, not knowing what to do; realizing my
utter helplessness, yet without being able to leave the spot. Since
that night I have often thought how foolish it was of me thus to court
suspicion, but at the time the horror I felt made me too reckless to
care for that.
Presently as I passed there was a movement to be seen within the
lighted-up room. A shadow came between the light and the window. Then
the light was extinguished. I took my stand in the obscurity of a
doorway and watched. The blind was drawn aside, then a figure appeared,
a man, the fellow who had opened the door to me. He shut the window,
withdrew, and all was darkness and silence, for the light in the hall
was out.
I waited a while in my new position with my eyes fixed on the top
window, whence it seemed the fan had been thrown out; but nothing
rewarded my watch. It was getting late. In spite of the alarm my
absence would cause Von Lindheim I determined to stay the night in
Buyda. I could not bring myself to ride away, disregarding that appeal,
though it was manifest how little it was in my power to arrest the
approaching tragedy.
I quitted my corner and made my way with all speed to the hotel.
"I have changed my mind, I stay here to-night," I said to the landlord.
"It may be some time yet before I turn in, but have a room ready for
me."
Then I went round to the stables, and by the dim light of a lantern
saw a fellow asleep on some sacks in a corner. I was proceeding to
rouse him when I saw that he was in livery; the coachman, possibly,
of some other guest. A pair of great black carriage horses stood in
the stalls beside my nag. The harness was on them; they were evidently
going out again that night. I don't know what roused my curiosity and
induced me to look closer. On the harness was a device, a coronet, and,
underneath, a cypher, G. F. I went out into the yard. A roomy carriage
stood under a shelter. Striking a match I examined the panels. On them
was emblazoned a coat of arms, with the same coronet above and the same
cypher below. Footsteps sounded on the cobbles of the yard. It was the
ostler. I told him I should not want my horse that night; I was sorry
to have kept him up.
"Oh," he said, "mein Herr, there is no bed for me yet. A gentleman's
carriage going out at midnight."
"Ah! the horses I saw in the stable just now. They are splendid
animals. Whom do they belong to?"
"To the Count Furello, mein Herr," the man answered with the importance
of his kind over a distinguished customer. Somehow I was prepared for
the answer.
"The Count travels late."
"Yes, mein Herr."
He moved off towards the stables and I let him go, judging there was
not much information to be got out of him. But I resolved to try what
under the circumstances was a pardonable piece of eavesdropping; so,
after a feint of going into the hotel, I crept back and placed myself
outside the stable window.
The ostler had evidently roused the sleeping coachman, and they were
now rallying one another with rough pleasantry. Presently, "It's all
the bed I shall get this night," the sleepy coachman exclaimed with
a yawn. "Five hours' hard driving to-day with scarce a minute for a
schoppen of beer. Our Herr Bleisst can play the devil when he chooses,
and the Herr Graf too."
"He drives at the devil's time, truly," the ostler laughed. "Midnight,
through the woods. Poor Carl! I shall remember you when I am snug in
bed. Ah! You will be ready for breakfast when you reach the Geierthal
to-morrow morning."
They said nothing more to which I could attach any importance, but
I had heard enough. It was only natural that I should connect this
midnight journey with the message on the fan. One thing struck me as
being particularly significant. At the Baroness's house that afternoon,
Count Furello had said that he was going to his home in the Geierthal;
but why was he travelling at night and by road?
According to his coachman, his carriage had posted up from the
Geierthal that morning, with such haste as hardly to give the man time
to get refreshment. That circumstance, coupled with what I knew of the
Count, enabled me to conceive a likely idea of what was going on. I
went into the hotel, had some supper, and at half-past eleven was back
in the gloomy street, which I found was called the Neckarstrasse. The
house was dark and silent as I left it. I lighted a cigar and walked
up and down, waiting for midnight, when I felt sure something would
happen. I was not wrong. It wanted but a few minutes to the hour, when,
stopping to turn, I could hear at some distance the rumble of a vehicle
approaching at a walking pace. At first I thought it could not be what
I expected; but as it turned into the street I saw that my suspicion
was correct. It was the carriage I had seen in the hotel yard; it
looked almost funereal, coming along at a foot's pace, with its pair of
big black horses. The slow rate of progression had the effect of making
very little noise; if the carriage had dashed up to the door, probably
half the street would have been roused. As it passed me, the light from
a lamp fell on the rather flamboyant device on the panel, but I needed
not that to make sure. It drew up at the door of the house whence the
fan had come; I had followed close behind, and as the carriage stopped,
I slipped unnoticed into the portico of the next house; a risky
position to take up, but I was resolved, come what might, to see who
the occupants of the carriage were to be. The coachman made no attempt
to give notice of his arrival, but sat on his box motionless as I,
leaning back in the shadow.
Presently, it may have been after ten minutes' waiting, the driver's
head turned sharply towards the door, then I heard the click of the
lock, and a man, the same who had opened the door to me, came out and
looked up and down the street with an air of reconnoitring. Apparently
satisfied, he spoke a few words in a low tone to the coachman and went
quickly into the house again.
In a short time he reappeared with what seemed a basket and a
travelling bag. These he placed inside the carriage. Then he brought
out a valise, which, with the help of the coachman, he stowed away
under the box. He now stood by the carriage door, waiting. I could
hear people moving and speaking in a low tone. Then the man held the
door open. I came forward, standing behind the pillar and leaning over
the railing to get as good a view as possible. Two men came down the
steps, conducting between them a lady so wrapped up and veiled that I
could not have seen her face even from a nearer point of view. They
were followed by a young woman, whom I seemed to recognize as she who
had called herself Miss Seemarsh, but of this the darkness prevented
my being sure. The man farthest from me I at once recognized as Count
Furello. His was not a face to forget. He got into the carriage first,
next the veiled lady was handed in by the other man, after which the
second lady entered, the man shut the door, and jumped up to the box
beside the coachman, who turned the horses and drove slowly off in
the direction he had come. The footman stood looking after them till
they were out of the street, then went in, and I came out from my
hiding-place.
"They are taking that girl off to her death," I cried, walking quickly
after them; "nothing can be done by me to save her. But, hopeless as
it may be, I will not leave her to these fiends without an effort to
rescue her. Thank Heaven, I know their destination; if you are to die,
my poor Asta, at least a friend shall be near you."