The room into which Johann conducted Grey was on the second floor, its
windows overlooking the court. With the glare of the boulevards still
in their eyes, the gloom of the darkened chamber was for a moment
almost impenetrable. Grey was conscious of the presence of several
persons, but they appeared more like shadows than realities, their
outlines alone distinguishable. The room was very quiet, save for the
sound of the laboured breathing which Johann had mentioned, and which
came from a bed in an alcove to the left of the entrance. Grey stood
hesitant just inside the doorway, while his vision grew accustomed to
the semi-darkness; and Johann, hat in hand, stood behind him.
Presently from out of the dusk a figure approached, tiptoeing across
the floor.
“He is dying!”
The words were whispered in German. The speaker, Grey observed, was of
medium height, but broad of shoulder and of erect military bearing. The
ends of his moustache were trained upward after the fashion affected by
the German Emperor.
Grey nodded his head in token that he understood.
“Dr. Zagaie is here. He has just administered nitro-glycerine and
tincture of aconite. We are hoping that he may regain consciousness.”
Objects were now becoming more clearly defined. Grey could see the bed
now, though its occupant was hidden by the bulky form of the physician,
who had his fingers on the dying man’s pulse, and by the black-clad,
slender figure of a woman who was pressing a handkerchief to her eyes.
At the foot of the bed stood a white-capped and white-cuffed nurse.
“Let us hope,” Grey responded.
The situation was most trying. He was with those who, it was apparent,
knew him extremely well, and yet were to him utter strangers. He was
almost afraid to speak lest he betray himself, and if the necessity
for learning something concerning his associates and associations had
not been so urgently important he would have retreated without waiting
further developments. He was nervously a-tremble, his fingers were
twitching involuntarily and alternately waves of hot and cold bathed
him from head to heel. The atmosphere of the room stifled him; the
stertorous breathing of the invalid oppressed him, the gloom and the
whispers and the soft tread of the persons present drove him frantic.
He was seized with an almost uncontrollable impulse to shout, to rush
about, to pull back the curtains and let in some daylight. He gripped
his hat until the brim cracked in his hand, the sound cutting the
silence discordantly.
“Sit down, Herr Arndt. We are expecting the Reverend Father. I sent
Lutz for him half an hour ago.”
_Lutz!_ Had the dusk been less deep the surprise that came over Grey’s
features must have been observed. Lutz! Could it be possible that his
valet was here in Paris with him, he asked himself. And instantly he
negatived the answer. Such a supposition was beyond reason. He had
misunderstood, or it was another Lutz. The name was not uncommon.
He placed his hat on a table and took a chair near a window, from which
he could look into the court below. The man who had addressed him
joined the group at the bedside. Johann quietly opened the door and
went out, closing it as quietly behind him. The silence became painful.
The inhalations and exhalations of the patient grew less strident. The
sobs of the Fraülein, which had at intervals punctured the stillness,
were suppressed.
Then, of a sudden, there was a commotion about the bed. The dying man,
who for hours had been gazing fixedly at the ceiling, turned his eyes
upon his watchers and moved his head feebly. The doctor beckoned the
nurse.
“Raise his head and shoulders a trifle. Quick, another pillow!”
Promptly and deftly the nurse obeyed.
“The stimulants are acting,” murmured the Herr Captain to the Fraülein:
“he has responded, but it will be but temporary.”
She wiped her eyes with her wet handkerchief, but said nothing. The
invalid’s gaze passed each of the four in turn. Then his lips moved,
and the doctor, bending down, placed his ear close to his mouth.
“Monsieur Arndt,” the physician said, in a low tone, as he straightened
himself, “it is Monsieur Arndt that he wants.”
The other three turned towards Grey. Captain Lindenwald raised his hand
with a beckoning gesture.
“He wants you,” he whispered; and as the American approached the bed
they made way for him. It was a face very thin and drawn that met
Grey’s view. Very sallow, too, and parchment-like; the nose long
and peaked, and the under lip, where it showed above the snow-white
beard, darkly purple. A great shock of hair vied with the pillows in
whiteness. In the tired eyes was a look of recognition.
“Lean over,” said Dr. Zagaie; “he wishes to speak to you. His voice is
very weak.”
A sensation of repulsion had swept over Grey at sight of the old man,
and now, to bring his face close to that of the invalid upon whom death
had already set its mark was sickeningly repugnant. But with an effort
of will he bent his head. A withered, wrinkled hand gripped his wrist
and for the hundredth part of a second he recoiled. The voice that
breathed into his ear was little more than a sigh, and he strained to
gather the words.
“Take it,” he heard; “it is yours. The key----”
And then the utterances sank so low as to be unintelligible. That
the old man had spoken in English was a circumstance over which Grey
marvelled quite as much as he did over the ambiguous command. He stood
erect again and would have stepped back, but the grip of the sufferer
was still upon his arm. Then, from the glazing eyes came an appeal that
was unmistakable, and again Grey bent his ear.
“The throne,” breathed the voice feebly; “it is yours. Take it!” This
much the listener heard quite clearly, mentally commenting that the
speaker was delirious. But from the sentences that followed he could
only glean a word here and there. “Key” was mentioned again, and
“box,” and he thought he heard “proofs,” and something that sounded
like “Gare du Nord.”
At length the fingers on his wrist relaxed and the eyes of Herr
Schlippenbach closed. Instantly and with professional celerity Dr.
Zagaie plunged the needle of a hypodermic syringe into the fainting
man’s arm. Simultaneously there was a gentle tap on the door, and
without waiting to be bidden a florid-faced priest entered, carrying a
small black leather case.
Grey resumed his place by the window, his brain teeming with problems
so enigmatical as to defy even theoretical solution. The dying man was
delirious, of course, he argued; therefore his words were unworthy of
consideration. And yet, he answered himself, he had made a supreme
effort to convey a message and he had chosen to phrase it in not
his own tongue but his listener’s, to make sure that it would be
understood. He felt like a man in a maze. At every turn there was some
new surprise; and he was going on and on, getting farther and farther
into the tangle, without as yet seeing any chance of extricating
himself.
Meanwhile, unnoticed by him, preparations for the Sacrament of Extreme
Unction were being hurriedly made. The priest had donned his alb and
stole and poured from a cruet the holy oil. The next minute the voice
of the cleric, clear and distinct, cleaving the hush of the room,
startled Grey from his meditation. The droning of the Latin ritual,
solemn and awesome, struck a new chord in his emotional being. He got
to his feet and stood with clasped hands and bowed head. Now the priest
was anointing the dying man’s eyes. With oily thumb he made the sign of
the cross and recited the words: “Through this holy unction, and His
most blessed mercy, may the Lord pardon thee whatever sins thou hast
committed by thy sight, Amen.” And then his ears, his nose, his mouth,
his hands, his feet were each in turn anointed with the same form of
supplication.
The ceremony concluded, Dr. Zagaie again stepped forward, taking the
place vacated by the priest. As he did so Herr Schlippenbach, who
had been breathing softly, peacefully, with closed lids, opened his
eyes wide with a look of sudden horror. There was a quick, convulsive
movement that stirred the coverlet, a long deep-drawn sigh, and the
aged man lay motionless.
Fraülein von Altdorf turned away, grief-stricken and horrified, from
the spectacle of death, and Grey for the first time saw her face. It
was more than pretty, he thought, with its big, sad blue eyes and its
full, red-lipped mouth all a-quiver with emotion. And her hair, which
shone even in the dusk of that darkened apartment with a lustre of its
own imparting, was very abundant and very beautiful. He realised that
she was coming towards him and he took a step forward to meet her. She
raised her arms and stretched out her hands gropingly until they rested
on his shoulders, and instinctively he knew that she had grown suddenly
faint. He clasped her swaying figure about the waist and supported her
to a couch.
“Dr. Zagaie,” he called, impatiently, “Mlle. von Altdorf requires a
restorative.”
Captain Lindenwald, who had been speaking to the nurse, turned
solicitously at the words.
“My dear,” he cried, kneeling beside the prostrate girl, “my dear, let
me get you some wine; the strain has been too much for you.”
But the Fräulein motioned him away.
“I shall be quite myself presently,” she said.
Nevertheless Dr. Zagaie insisted on her taking a sedative.
After a little Grey withdrew, and not without some difficulty found
his apartment, which was on the same floor, but in another part of the
hotel. In his absence his room had been put in order, and there now lay
upon the table a blue envelope, addressed in a distinctly English hand
to “M. Max Arndt.” Though it was undoubtedly meant for him it was with
rather a sense of impropriety that he took it up and tore off the end.
Revelation after revelation had followed one another so rapidly that
afternoon that he was growing callous to discovery, and when he read--