On the way back to Paris Grey’s thoughtful silence contrasted so
markedly with his cheery loquacity of the morning that Fraülein von
Altdorf was led to observe:
“I do believe you’re tired, Uncle Max.”
“Tired?” he repeated, forcing a smile. “No, my child, not a bit. The
day has been a joy. I’ve revelled in it. Tired! The idea! Am I a
septuagenarian or am I an invalid?”
“But you haven’t spoken for fifteen whole minutes.”
“Haven’t I, really? I suppose I was thinking.”
“Of what?” she asked, mischievously.
Grey hesitated a little moment.
“Of fortune and misfortune,” he answered, gravely; “of Fate and the
pranks she plays; of life and its inconsistencies; of right and wrong
and rewards and punishments; of love and hatred and jealousy; of fair
women and brutal, selfish men; of a hundred and one things more or less
interesting and absorbing.”
“Oh, you _were_ busy!” the girl exclaimed. “I don’t wonder you didn’t
hear my question. Altogether I have asked it three times.”
“I beg your pardon,” he pleaded contritely; “that was very rude of me.
Won’t you ask it once more?”
They had a compartment to themselves and were seated opposite each
other. The train had just left Asnières and was crossing the Seine.
“I was wondering whether you noticed the lady we passed in the garden
of the Petit Trianon. I don’t believe you did.”
“We passed many ladies,” Grey temporised; “I can’t say that I noticed
them all.”
“Oh, but this one was very beautiful,” she insisted. “She had such
colouring and such lovely brown eyes, and I think she thought she
recognised you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me at the time?” he asked, striving to appear
unconscious.
“Why didn’t I? That’s a nice question. I nudged you and I tried to
catch your eye; and, after we had gone on a few steps I begged you to
look back, but you wouldn’t heed me. Oh, you were thinking very hard
just then. Was it about fair ladies and brutal, selfish men, do you
imagine?”
“Probably,” Grey answered. “I’m sorry I was so rude.” And once more he
relapsed into meditative silence.
Very bitter indeed was his self-condemnation. If he could have had
a second more in which to make his decision he would have decided
differently. Of that he was sure. It may have been that he took the
course of wisdom, but wisdom and love have been enemies since time
began, and where his allegiance was due there he had proved traitor.
He contrasted his selfishness with her loyalty, and his ready
willingness to conclude that she believed ill of him with her now
proved steadfastness, even to the disregard of place and circumstance.
He had metaphorically given her a curse for a caress, and he mentally
and emotionally scourged himself for his brutality. The suggestion that
desperate ills require desperate remedies--that it was necessary to
be cruel that he might be kind--presented itself, but he refused to
admit that it had any application. He was consumed by a desire to make
reparation, to wipe out this blot of cowardice with some recklessly
bold bit of bravery. He would go to her hotel--the Van Tuyls always
stopped at the Ritz--and regardless of consequences he would present
himself, explain all, and, in abject abasement, beseech her pardon.
This, he argued, was the very least he could do. But when he reached
this conclusion doubts assailed him and robbed him of what little peace
he had garnered. Would she receive him? What right had he to expect
that she could permit him to speak to her, now that he had repulsed
her--cut her in the presence of her friends and further insulted and
humiliated her by appearing more than interested in another woman--and
a very young and very pretty woman, too? He most assuredly could have
no just cause for complaint should she adopt such an attitude. She had
indicated clearly enough that as long as only newspaper reports were
his accusers she was willing to await his side of the story, but when
she had given him an opportunity to defend himself, and he had chosen
to ignore it and herself as well, was it in reason to hope for any
further forbearance?
It was in this mood that Grey’s return from Versailles was
accomplished; in this ill-temper with himself and this doubt of being
able to undo what he looked on as a more dire menace to his happiness
than all the charges of defalcation and embezzlement and all the
dangers of extradition.
When at length he and Miss von Altdorf reached the Hôtel Grammont they
found O’Hara awaiting them. He came running out to the _fiacre_ and
gave a hand to the young woman, assisting her to alight.
“Where on earth have you been?” he asked, smiling; but Grey caught a
note of concern in his voice.
“To Versailles, for the day,” the Fraülein answered, gaily. “And oh,
such a lovely day, too! I’ve enjoyed every minute of it.”
“Didn’t they tell you?” Grey asked. “Lindenwald knew.”
“I haven’t seen him.”
“Johann knew.”
“I haven’t seen Johann either.”
It was not until the two men were together in Grey’s room that O’Hara
broke his news.
“They’ve cleared out,” he said, bluntly. “What do you think of that for
a rum go?”
Grey, who had been drawing off his gloves, stopped midway in the
process.
“Cleared out!” he repeated, in astonishment. “Who have cleared out?
What do you mean?”
“The whole crew,” declared O’Hara, “Lindenwald and Lutz and Johann. I
understood at first that you and the Fraülein had gone with them, but
the _portier_ told me that you and she had started earlier and that
your traps were still here.”
“But they?” Grey pursued, eagerly. “Where have they gone? Did they
leave no word?”
“Devil a word,” returned the Irishman. “They paid their bill--that is,
the Captain did--and departed, kit and all.”
“What does it mean?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
Grey drew off his other glove.
“They’re frightened,” he decided; “they have grown suspicious. They
never knew at what minute they would be pounced on. Their plot was
clear enough. What they wanted to do was to palm me off as the Crown
Prince of Budavia and put me on the throne when the King dies, as he is
going to, if he has not already.”
“What rot!” exclaimed O’Hara. “Have you gone clean daft? What would be
their object? How could they hope to do it?”
“I don’t know anything about their object,” Grey continued, calmly;
“that’s still a puzzle to me; but they might hope for a lot with me in
the condition I was in a few days ago. I apparently did their bidding
to their utmost satisfaction.”
“It’s very improbable,” the Irishman insisted; “you’ll never be able to
make any one believe it.”
“Won’t I?” the American demanded. “Well, then, wait and see. I’ve
learned a lot since I saw you last. As much as I’ve told you is very
plain. I have witnesses to prove it. And the other proofs--my God! What
do you suppose has become of that box at the Gare du Nord? I sent Lutz
for the check or receipt last night, and he never brought it. And this
ring!” he went on, talking more to himself than to his companion,
“it was in that box. Of course it was. And--” He ceased speaking--his
thoughts were coming now too rapidly for words--and stood with lips
pressed and eyelids drawn, gazing through his lashes into space.
He was satisfied that someone--he suspected it was Lutz--had got the
box from the railway station, had rifled it, had abstracted the ring,
had made so bold as to wear it. Yes, when Lutz had come in answer to
his summons of the previous evening, he was wearing it even then.
It must have been too large for him. He had been nervous, his hands
had been twitching, and it had dropped from his finger, and--but no;
could it be possible? Was it--_was_ it Lutz who had returned in the
early morning with intent to smother him? Was it he with whom he had
wrestled? Was it from his hand that he had stripped this heirloom of
the Budavian Court? And Lindenwald’s assurance that it bore the von
Einhard arms? What could that mean, other than that Lindenwald was in
league with Lutz and striving to shield him? And now their flight....
“Will you kindly tell me whether you are subject to these attacks?”
asked O’Hara, interrupting his train of thought. “If I’m to be your
lieutenant and serve in your campaign, it strikes me that I should have
your full and entire confidence, and yet you are keeping something from
me.”
“I’ll tell you everything after dinner,” Grey consented. “We’ll have a
council of war and we’ll map out a plan of action.”
When O’Hara had run away to dress, promising to meet Grey and the
Fraülein in a private room of the Café Riche at seven-thirty and dine
with them, the American’s thoughts reverted to his resolution to see
Hope Van Tuyl at all hazards. The disappearance of Lindenwald and
the others, however, had again somewhat altered the situation. It
was now more than ever necessary that he retain his freedom in order
to track and run down the fugitives, and he recognised the risk he
took in going to a hotel patronised largely by Americans and sending
up a card bearing his real name. Once more his judgment was in the
ascendency--wisdom had gained a slight advantage over the little blind
god.
Sitting down at his table Grey took up a pen and wrote:
MY DARLING: For the last two hours I have been in purgatory. What
must you think of me? I would come to you at once if I could, but
it is impossible. Tomorrow morning, though, I must see you. At
the end of the Tuileries gardens, near the Place de la Concorde,
there is, you may remember, a grove of trees. Arrange to be there
with your maid at eleven o’clock. There will be few there at that
hour.
This he despatched to the Ritz by messenger.
“Fancy Captain Lindenwald going off!” cried Minna, as, promptly at
twenty minutes past seven, she joined Grey in the drawing-room. “Where
has he gone, do you suppose? And Lutz, too, and even Johann.”
“They’ve gone to the seaside over Sunday,” was Grey’s jesting reply.
“Paris was getting too warm for them.”
“But,” she protested, at fault, “I understood we were all to start for
Kürschdorf tomorrow night.”
“Were we? Who said so?”
“Captain Lindenwald, last evening.”
“Well, Captain Lindenwald has changed his plans.”
“It is certainly very mysterious,” she concluded, perplexedly. “I
couldn’t believe it when the chambermaid told me.” And the great solemn
eyes were graver than usual.
When, after dinner, they returned to the hotel, Grey’s glance detected
a telegram in the rack addressed to the decamping Captain and he made
haste to appropriate it. A little later, in his room, he handed it to
O’Hara.
“It may be of service,” he said, significantly. “I don’t much like
prying into another man’s affairs, but in this case his and mine are,
in a way, identical.”
The Irishman nodded.
“We’ll keep it until you’ve told me all you know without it,” he
suggested, taking out a briarwood pipe and filling it, “so drive ahead,
lad, and don’t omit any details.”
And then Grey told his story, beginning with the glimpse of von
Einhard, on the Boulevard St. Martin; following with the visit of Edson
and the overheard announcement that he, Grey, was the Crown Prince
Maximilian; the reappearance of the Baron; Lutz’s suspicious demeanour;
the attempt on his life; the finding of the ring; the ring’s history;
and, finally, his own deductions.
O’Hara listened attentively, blowing great clouds of smoke from under
his red moustache. Occasionally he interrupted with a question. When
the recital was concluded he got up and extended his hand.
“Well done, man,” he exclaimed; “you have been making hay in sun and
rain alike. I wonder if we could lay our hands on this Baron von
Einhard. It seems to me that he is just the chap we want to make
friends with.”
“I dare say he is still hanging about,” the American replied; “he
probably has not lost sight of me. I’d know him if I saw him again.
We’ll have a look in at the cafés a little later. And now about
Lindenwald and the others. Didn’t the _portier_ know which way they
went?”
“No, they hailed a couple of passing _fiacres_, and he didn’t hear what
directions were given.”
Grey tore open the telegram which O’Hara had tossed onto the table. It
was dated Kürschdorf. “The King is dead,” it read; “wire when you will
be here,” and it was signed, “Ritter.”
He pushed it across to the Irishman, remarking:
“He probably had that news from some other source before he left.”
“You think it hastened him?”
“In a way, yes. At least it directed him,” Grey said, with conviction.
O’Hara looked at him inquiringly.
“You surely don’t imagine the three of them have gone to Kürschdorf?”
he blurted, in a tone of surprise.
“I do mean that exactly.”
“But why there, of all places? If Lindenwald is expected to bring the
Crown Prince with him he surely wouldn’t go there empty-handed. What
excuses could he make?”
“I don’t pretend to conjecture his excuses,” Grey replied, smiling,
“but it seems very clear to me that Kürschdorf is his only sanctuary.
There he will be with friends. Whatever he says is likely to be
believed. If he fled elsewhere he would be in constant danger of
arrest. His very flight would be evidence of his guilt.”
O’Hara nodded.
“You’re probably right,” he acquiesced; “anyway he turned he had
to take chances, and Kürschdorf must have looked to him the least
dangerous. What do you propose to do?”
“Follow him,” Grey answered, promptly. “Take the Orient Express
tomorrow night.”
“And once we are there; what then?”
“The Crown Prince claims the throne.”
O’Hara put down his pipe and sat staring in amazement.
“Claims the throne?” he repeated, “the Crown Prince?”
“The Crown Prince claims the throne.” Grey reiterated it with calm
decision.
“You mean that _you_ will claim the throne?” the Irishman persisted,
still perplexed.
“Precisely.”
The dragoon guard got up and walked the length of the room, smoking
very hard.
“That’s a dangerous business,” he said, as he came back and stood
with the tips of his fingers resting on the table, “a very dangerous
business.”
“There’s no other way in God’s world to find out who are in the plot,”
Grey returned, grimly.
“I don’t quite see--” O’Hara began, but the American interrupted him.
“I haven’t mastered all the details myself,” he said, “but that’s the
kernel of the nut we’re cracking. Perhaps von Einhard can aid us. He
must know the conspirators, and he can give us the names of the men
into whose hands we are supposed to play. I have a suspicion that the
Budavian Minister here in Paris is one of the lot. But it won’t do to
take that for granted. Otherwise I’d see him before leaving.”
“I have been thinking over the idea of consulting the Baron,” O’Hara
ventured, after a pause. “Suppose he won’t believe you?”
“Oh, but he will,” the other insisted; “I’ll make it quite clear to him
that I am an American and that I’m a victim and not an aspirant for
kingly honours, except in so far as goes to set matters right and bring
the guilty to justice.”
“It’s a risk that you take there, lad,” the Irishman argued; “the more
I think of it the bigger it looks. He’s just as likely to fancy it’s
only a game of yours to throw him off the scent and secure your own
ends. I don’t believe Lindenwald exaggerated his shrewdness. I’ve
heard of him myself.”
Grey rose, leaned over the table and took a cigarette from a tray.
“Come,” he said, as he struck a match, “we’re liable to find him about
this time.”
During the past twenty-four hours he had experienced a gradual
reawakening of faculties that had previously lain dull or dormant. His
five months of lost memory had had an after-effect in what he could
only describe as a mental thickness. His thoughts had run slowly and
sluggishly; he had lacked keenness of perception and the ability to
draw deductions; he had been all the while conscious of a timidity, an
indecision, a hesitation, a tendency to rely upon others, against which
he strove with but little effect. His actions were dictated by outside
suggestion rather than by his own judgment. And with this, too, was a
contrasting dignity of demeanour unnatural to him, and all the more
annoying in that it was, he knew, superficial and at discord with his
temperament.
The clearing of his brain, the reassertion of his naturally alert
mentality, the recovery of his self-reliance, were now becoming
evident; but that unwonted, and to him unwelcome, exaggeration of
dignity in his carriage and demeanour gave no sign of deserting him.
O’Hara observed the change and delighted in it. The soldier in him
could find only admiration for the manner in which Grey had risen
mentally in one day from a subaltern to a commanding officer; and the
dignified, distinguished air which had seemed, he once thought, a
little incongruous appeared now as most fitting and admirable.
Together they went in search of the Budavian Baron. Into one café after
another they wandered, but always without success. They encountered
acquaintances by the dozen--men and women whom Grey and O’Hara had met
since their arrival in Paris, and whom Grey had no recollection of ever
having seen before--but the little, wiry, sallow-faced Italian-looking
nobleman was nowhere in evidence.
It is never safe, however, to assume that a visitor to the French
capital is abed and asleep simply because he cannot be found in any of
the boulevard cafés around the hour of midnight.
X
At the door of the Hôtel Grammont, Grey and O’Hara stood for some
little time in conversation. As they were about to part, O’Hara asked:
“You haven’t a revolver, have you?”
“No,” Grey answered, carelessly. “Shall I need one, do you think?”
“After your experience of last night it seems to me it would be just as
well to sleep with one under your pillow.”
Grey laughed.
“I don’t fancy I shall be disturbed again,” he said.
“I’ll run over to my place and get you one,” O’Hara insisted. “I shall
be back in ten minutes.”
As he went off at a brisk walk Grey turned into the wide passage that
gave entrance to the court. The _portier_ was not visible, but at the
foot of the narrow stairway to the right a man who in the dim light
had the appearance of one of the hotel valets, addressed him.
“Captain Lindenwald has returned, Monsieur Arndt,” he said, quietly,
respectfully; “he met with an accident and has come back. He begs that
Monsieur Arndt will see him before retiring.”
For a moment Grey stood silent in surprise.
“An accident?” he queried, recovering himself.
“Yes, monsieur. His train ran into an open switch at Villieurs. His
leg is broken in two places, and he is injured internally. I will show
monsieur to his room.”
As he led the way to the floor above and along a passage towards the
back of the house where Herr Schlippenbach’s room had been, Grey
marvelled over this new twist in the thread of fate. That the Captain
had returned to this hotel and had sent for him argued, he thought,
that there must have been some mistake or misunderstanding as to his
departure. If he had meant to desert his charge he would not under any
circumstances have acted in this fashion. Perhaps--indeed it was quite
possible--he had left a letter which some stupid French servant had
failed to deliver, or it might simply have been his intention to spend
Sunday out of Paris, giving Lutz and Johann permission to take a brief
holiday as well. O’Hara had said something about their luggage being
gone, but that might have been an error, too.
At a turn in the passage Grey’s guide halted before a door and rapped,
playing, as it were, a sort of brief tattoo on the panel with his
knuckles; and at the same time a waiter passed on his way to the rear
stairway.
An instant later the door was opened by someone who shielded himself
behind it. The man who had led the way and done the rapping stepped
back, and the American, his eyes a little dazzled by the light, put
a foot across the threshold. Just what followed Grey never exactly
knew. A myriad brilliant, sparkling, rapidly darting specks of fire
filled his vision. In his ears was a thunderous rushing sound like
a storm sweeping through a forest--a swollen river churning through
rocky narrows. His body seemed dropping through interminable space,
gaining momentum with every foot of its fall, but shooting straight,
straight downward without a swerve; the lights flashing by him, the
winds roaring past him as he sped. An agony of apprehension seized
him. He was going to be crushed to atoms; mangled, broken, distorted.
He tried to raise his arms, to clutch at the impalpable, but they were
held down as if by leaden weights. To bend a knee, to lift a foot, to
cry out, were alike impossible of achievement. And then, with a crash
that split his ears, that tore every joint asunder, that racked every
nerve, muscle, sinew and tendon, the end came. The myriad sparks, like
the countless flashing facets of countless diamonds, were drowned in
blackest night and the terrifying rush of furious winds and frantic
waves was hushed in a silence profound and awful--the blackness and the
silence of unconsciousness.
Very gradually, but in much shorter time than he fancied, or than his
assailants expected, he recovered command of his faculties and became
aware that he was lying upon a couch, an improvised gag in his mouth,
his arms pinioned in a most uncomfortable way at his sides, and his
feet bound together with cords that cut cruelly into the flesh of his
ankles. He realised then that he had been led into a trap and had been
sandbagged or otherwise assaulted as he entered it. His mind was still
busy with Lindenwald and his motives, he fancied at first that he was
responsible for this outrage, and warily, between his lashes, with
his eyes scarcely opened, he glanced about the room in search of this
gallant member of the Budavian royal household.
There were, however, but two persons present, and Lindenwald was not
one of them. One was the little man whom he had mistaken for a hotel
valet and who had lured him to his downfall; and the other was a tall,
burly, bearded fellow, with a low forehead and sinister, bloodshot
eyes. The two were standing near an open window and the larger man had
in his hands a thick hempen rope, one end of which Grey observed was
knotted about the heavy post of an old-fashioned mahogany bedstead
which stood against the opposite wall. On more careful inspection he
saw that the man was deliberately making a slip knot of the pattern
known as a hangman’s noose. The only light in the room was that given
by a single candle, but it sufficed for Grey to gather these details.
The smaller man leaned out of the window for a moment, and on drawing
in his head he turned to the other with the remark:
“The carriage is there. Make haste with your knot. I’m not in love with
this business.”
He spoke in German and his partner replied in the same tongue.
“Have patience,” he said, calmly; “it’s a heavy body we’ve got to lower
and the knot must be strong. There’s plenty of time. He won’t come to
himself for hours, and there’s no fear of anyone interrupting us now.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” was the reply, in a tone of nervous
apprehension; “we have been here too long as it is. If we should fail
at the last minute, the Baron would----”
“S--sh!” warned the other, “no names is safer. Just another wrapping
now and she’ll hold all right. Some wrap it seven times and some only
five, but I’m giving it nine, to be sure.”
He had scarcely finished the sentence when a blow, aggressive and
imperious, sounded on the door. The younger man started nervously, but
the other just phlegmatically lowered his work and raised his head.
“What’s that mean?” he whispered.
“God knows!” the other replied, agitatedly. “What’s to be done?”
“Done? Nothing. Keep still, that’s all. Blow out that candle,” he
commanded. Though he spoke very low his voice penetrated and Grey
caught every word.
Again a heavy blow struck the door, repeated blows, accompanied by a
demand:
“_Ouvrez la porte!_”
The voice was O’Hara’s. Grey recognised it with a thrill. He had
returned with the revolver, and not finding him in his room had set out
in search of him. But how, he wondered, could he have traced him here?
And then he thought of the waiter he had seen in the passage, who had
evidently recognised him. Yes, the waiter must have told.
Now Grey heard other voices outside. There was the shuffling, too, of
many feet. Still, the men within made no sound. The candle had been
extinguished and the darkness was intense.
The knocking became clamorous. There was a general ominous murmur like
low growling thunder from the other side of the door.
Bang! bang! bang! resounded the blows.
“Open the door! Open at once or I’ll break it down,” O’Hara roared.
Grey’s enforced silence and inertia were maddening. He bit at his gag,
contorted his mouth, tugged at his arms, but could accomplish nothing,
beyond a wriggling change of position.
“Perhaps they have gone,” he heard someone say, whose voice was
sonorous, “perhaps they have gone. Escaped by the window. There is no
light there; and no sound.”
“Stop!” It was O’Hara speaking. “Listen!”
With an effort Grey squirmed to the edge of the couch and dropped his
bound body to the floor with a thud that echoed through the silent room.
“Damn him!” he heard the bigger of his two companions hiss through his
teeth.
From outside there came a yell of triumph; and then a heavy, crashing,
catapultian mass fell upon the fragile portal. There was a crackling,
splintering sound of wood rent apart, and through the aperture thus
made, in the dim light of the single gas-jet in the passage, O’Hara
came plunging with half a dozen of the hotel employés at his heels.
At the same instant a head disappeared below the sill of the window,
and the rope from the bedpost was stretched taut and creaking with the
weight of two descending bodies.
The Irishman, crossing the room in a flash, missed the form of his
prostrate friend by a hair’s-breadth and dived headlong for the open
casement. But quick as he was the fleeing scapegraces, realising their
danger, were even more speedy. As his head shot out into the night
the strain on the rope relaxed and there came up from the darkness
below a patter of feet on the stone flagging of the alley. His pistol
was in his hand and he fired once--twice--three times--blindly into
the blackness beneath, guided only by the echo of those retreating
footsteps.
Meanwhile, one of the Frenchmen--Baptiste, the waiter, by the way,
who had told O’Hara that he saw Monsieur Arndt enter this room--was
removing the gag from Grey’s mouth, while others were cutting the
cords that bound his limbs. For a moment the American’s view of the
Irishman’s broad back was cut off by those surrounding him, but the
next minute he was on his feet and--but in that instant O’Hara had
disappeared. Clutching the dangling rope, he had swung himself out of
the window and had slid down nimbly in pursuit.
Grey’s impulse was to follow, but at the first step he reeled dizzily
and would have fallen had not Baptiste thrown an arm about him and
aided him to a chair. His head was aching splittingly and his legs and
arms were numb. For a little while he was lost to everything save the
racking torture of physical pain. Then the voluble, excited clatter of
the men about him recalled him to a sense of what had happened.
“What are you standing here for?” he cried, vexedly. “Get down to the
street, every one of you. Monsieur O’Hara may need you. Off, I say. Be
quick!”
“But, monsieur,” urged Baptiste, hanging back as the other five made a
hasty exit, “is it not that monsieur would like a surgeon?”
“Surgeon be damned!” yelled Grey, excitedly. “Out with you!”
But in five minutes they were back again in augmented numbers, with
O’Hara accompanied by a _sergent de ville_ at their head.
“They got clean away, the beggars,” the Irishman announced; and then
seeing Grey very white, he exclaimed: “Are you hurt, lad? What in God’s
name did they do to you, the scalawags?”
“I’m only a little knocked up,” the American answered, with a forced
smile; “it was a pretty hard rap on the head they gave me, though.”
The police officer had taken out a notebook, and now he began to ask
questions. There was very little, however, that anyone could tell him.
Grey described his assailants as accurately as he knew how, and gave
him the benefit of his suspicions.
“By whom was the room engaged?” asked the _sergent_, addressing
Baptiste; but Baptiste did not know. Then a messenger was sent to
arouse the _portier_, who had been abed for an hour or more, and when
at length he came in, still rubbing his eyes, the information that he
gave conveyed nothing.
The room, he said, was taken that evening by a man of ordinary
appearance who gave the name of Schmidt. His brother and a friend would
occupy it, he told the _portier_, and he paid one day’s rent in advance.
“Was the man tall or short?” asked the officer.
The _portier_ shrugged his stalwart shoulders.
“I do not know,” he replied.
“Was he dark or fair?”
“I cannot tell you, monsieur,” he repeated; “I did not notice.”
“Of what age?”
“It is impossible that I should conjecture, monsieur,” with another
shrug.
Grey laughed, sneeringly. “He evidently paid more than room rent,” he
said to O’Hara. “The Baron von Einhard is very clever.”
And when, a little while after, he thought of looking through his
pockets he had reason to reiterate and emphasise this opinion. Not a
penny of his money had been touched; his watch and chain were still in
his possession, as were indeed all of his belongings save one. The ring
of the Prince of Kronfeld alone was missing.