VON LINDHEIM'S DEPARTURE
The probabilities now were, that Fräulein Asta von Winterstein was
still alive. Horribly shocked as I was by what I had seen, it was yet
with a feeling of almost relief that, when the ghastly work was over,
and the men had gone, I got down from my place of observation and went
back to the inn.
One thing greatly annoyed me. That was the thought of the opportunity
I had missed, while the men were engaged in the wood, of slipping
into their boat and trying whether they had not left the little door
unfastened. What I could have done towards rescuing the imprisoned
girl, even had I gained entrance into the building, was very doubtful;
still, had I imagined that it was not her body they were going to bury
I should certainly have made the attempt. After all my life was in no
greater danger than that of a soldier's in action, with, personally, a
far more imperative reason for risking it. The relation of the night's
deed had a bad effect on Von Lindheim, although he manfully strove to
hide it.
"I am the only man left now," he said bitterly, "who saw that affair.
Is it likely that I shall be allowed to live?"
I did my best to give him courage, making most of the Chancellor's
assurance, and pointing out how different his case was from that of the
priest who had actually performed the ceremony. But in the unstrung
state of his nerves my arguments made little impression, and, though he
affected to take a hopeful view, I fear he went to bed in a miserable
frame of mind.
Next morning Strode came over, and we prepared to go out shooting with
him. There was a certain breeziness about my fellow-countryman that
acted as a nerve tonic. I had been worrying about Von Lindheim during
the night, and had come to the conclusion that the only thing for him
was to slip away out of the country and put, if possible, a continent
between himself and the ruthless Chancellor. The opportunity was apt,
since, so far as we could tell, our whereabouts was not known. Still,
any hour might bring us evidence of the contrary, and it seemed to me
that the sooner my friend was on his way the better.
At breakfast I told him my idea, and was glad to notice that it seemed
to jump with his own inclination.
"The only question is the detail," I said. "I am sorry that I cannot
come with you, but I am bound to stay here, at any rate till I know
the worst, and perhaps, after all, you will have a better chance by
yourself, since, if Rallenstein's people are on the look-out, it will
naturally be for us both together."
Strode's appearance at the inn put an idea into my head, which I
thought out and communicated to him later in the day.
"I want your advice and your help, if you'll give it me," I said. We
had walked some two or three miles from the Geierthal on to high ground
along which ran a chain of woods well stocked with game. Von Lindheim
was some little way from us, and I had shortened the regulation
interval between Strode and myself to speaking distance.
He answered eagerly, rather surprised, it seemed, that any one should
be found to ask help of him.
"My dear fellow, of course I will. What's the trouble?"
"You will give me your word it shall go no farther?" He nodded, and I
felt I could trust him. "Our friend Von Lindheim is under a cloud. He
is being hunted down for political reasons. Holds a dangerous secret,
and his life is not worth twelve hours' purchase."
Strode whistled. "Bad as that?"
"Yes; you don't know what vindictive fiends these Government people
are. Now, if he is to save his life he must get away out of the
country."
"I should think so. I'm your man; this is rather exciting. What can I
do?"
"You have a passport?"
"Yes. Ah, I see."
"I have an idea if he travelled in your name it might put the
bloodhounds off the scent. He speaks English perfectly, as you hear.
It is but a chance, still I can't see a good fellow like that done to
death in cold blood without an effort to save him. He ought to slip
away quietly at once."
"Yes," he drawled, but I could see he was thinking it out. "We had
better head for my diggings, potting what we can on our way. I've an
idea an _Eilwagen_ passes about a mile below the house between four and
five. That might do for him. We can talk it over as we go."
Whereupon we called Von Lindheim and communicated the plan to him.
The situation and his chances were discussed as we went; details
of his flight and the safest route were arranged. The cottage, a
literal shooting-box, was soon reached, a curiously bare little place
furnished simply with necessaries, and, with the exception perhaps
of one armchair, none of the luxuries of life. Here Strode provided
an excellent luncheon, considering the resources of the place, fish
and game and ham, with an assortment of _delicatessen_ and a capital
bottle of wine. Then we equipped Von Lindheim for his journey, making
him as much like a travelling Briton as possible, towards which an
old suit of Strode's went a long way. Everything that could be was
changed, even down to the linen, which now bore the Englishman's name,
proof positive of his identity. Then, furnished with the all-important
passport, a travelling bag, a flask and sandwiches, he set off with us
to intercept the _Eilwagen_, which was soon to pass through the valley
below.
Both he and I were depressed at the thought of the parting, and I
am sure our minds were full of darker forebodings than we cared to
acknowledge; but Strode's dry humour and happy-go-lucky temperament
kept up our spirits; carelessness of self is infectious, as every
soldier knows.
We reached the spot where the _Eilwagen_ was to pass, and after some
twenty minutes' waiting it lumbered into sight. Thereupon we bade
Von Lindheim God-speed and left him, thinking it just as well that
he should appear alone. Still, in that wooded country we were able
unobserved to see the last of him, and it was with satisfaction we
noticed that the only passenger so far was an old market woman who sat
beside the driver talking volubly. The accent of our friend's hail was
worthy of a real Englishman; the jolting vehicle pulled up, he threw in
his bag and took his seat. There was just time for a wave of the hand
unseen by the other occupants, and a turn in the road shut him from our
sight.
I must confess that it was with a good deal of relief that I saw Von
Lindheim safely on his way. I had my doubts as to the probabilities
of his ultimate escape, the more so as I mistrusted his nerve at
a critical juncture. Still, something had to be done, he had the
advantage of a good start, and I had arranged that if there was no
more chance of helping Fräulein von Winterstein I would follow him, it
might be on the next day. But that was not to be.
I could not quite make up my mind whether it would be as well to tell
Strode the real reason of my staying on at the inn in the Geierthal.
His pluck, contempt of danger, and promptness of resource were all that
I could wish; he was, I felt sure, staunch enough; yet I hesitated,
and, although more than once on the point of doing so, said nothing
that day of the imprisoned girl. We had plenty to talk of on our way
back in the recital of the Chancellor's methods of securing secrecy.
However, I did not tell Strode what the particular affair was that had
brought these men to their death. We made an arrangement to meet and
shoot on the morrow, and I went back alone to the Geierthal.
On reaching the inn I found the coffee-room occupied by a young fellow
whose appearance was so curious that I gave him a second glance. He
was poorly dressed, of a very dark complexion, his lip was fringed
with a slight moustache, while a mass of untidy black hair fell
over his collar and stood out in front from beneath his cap, almost
veiling his eyes. By the side of his plate stood an old concertina. A
tramping musician, I thought; then looked again and, from habit, became
suspicious. However, he had as much right there as I, so I ordered my
dinner, explaining to the innkeeper that my friend was sleeping that
night at the Englishman's cottage to be ready for an early shoot in the
morning.
Presently the young man took up his concertina and went out. From the
window I saw him seat himself on the bench in front of the house,
roll a cigarette and lazily smoke it, playing the while softly on his
instrument.
"A travelling musician?" I asked the landlord.
He gave a shrug. "I think so. He says he came from Carlzig to-day. They
sometimes pass this way, but not often; there is not much to be picked
up here. No people, no pence."
I thought it strange enough to be suspicious; but when I went out a
little later the musician was gone and I saw him no more.