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.”