Like most modest, unassuming persons I am proud of a lot of things. Thus, without any boasting, I think I am fairly discreet. You may therefore imagine how astonished I felt when I found myself next morning in Mr. Doblana's studio, carefully rummaging his drawers in search of the manuscript of his ballet Griseldis. I had an excuse: I was doing detective work, and the discreet detective is a type that has still to be invented. But you may believe me: I was unceasingly blushing.

During the night I remembered a conversation which I had overheard by chance—please, do not forget that I am a discreet person—a conversation between Mr. Doblana and the Herr Graf. It had taken place the first time that I was admitted to the Round Table, and I have duly reported it in Chapter III.

(I am absolutely distressed always to be obliged to refer the reader to previous chapters. It gives this story, which otherwise would be quite pleasant, an almost scientific appearance. But my unbounded inexperience in the art of writing must be taken into account.)

This conversation then had mentioned the loss of one of Mr. Doblana's works. The name of the work was not stated, nor how it had been lost. A musical work may be lost otherwise than by the actual disappearance or destruction of its manuscript. A hostile report may mean its definite ruin. But once the idea had struck me that Mr. Doblana's strange calamity was indeed the loss of his manuscript, the recollection of that colloquy with the Herr Graf strengthened my opinion. So I tried to make sure whether Griseldis really had disappeared.

After I had made an hour's careful search, and inspected every paper, leaf by leaf, without finding the slightest trace of the manuscript, I decided that I was right. I further concluded that the horn-player was convinced of its having been stolen, and this with the help of his own daughter.

As it had a considerable monetary value, he must have been very sore about the disappearance of his work. The simplest thing would of course have been to communicate with the police. But tied to a collaborator of so high a position as the Herr Graf he could not well take such a step without consulting him. Clearly Doblana had not obtained his support, a prominent member of the Court having probably no desire for any business with the police. Thus the matter was at an end for my poor host. He had to remain quiet, and despair was his only consolation.

But I at least was not compelled to have any consideration, and I wanted badly to free Mitzi from the suspicion which lay upon her. From what I knew, it was absolutely unjust. She had been lured into a journey, and her absence had been misused.

By whom?

Who was the thief?

An examining magistrate must sometimes have a very uncomfortable feeling. For, if one has a preconceived idea in such a case, it is difficult to free oneself from it. I experienced this. In my mind Giulay was the main hinge on which the whole business turned. From the beginning I had conceived it so, and hard as I tried to get rid of this idea, it always came back to me: Giulay had sent the wire, in spite of his denial, knowing quite well that it would decide Mitzi to go to Salzburg. And Giulay did not like Mr. Doblana, as he had shown by attacking him in a tactless and violent way, without apparent reason, in the course of the evening at the Tobacco Pipe.

The great difficulty for me consisted in the impossibility of talking about the whole affair to Mitzi. I held the man to be capable of any villainy. But there was no probability of getting Mitzi to divest herself of the prejudice she had in favour of the ugly Hungarian. If I had expressed but a little of my thoughts she would at once have accused me of wronging him, she would have resented it as an annoyance; and for no consideration would I wish to annoy her.

So I kept my suppositions to myself. One point above all seemed to me important. The thief must have known not only that, on receipt of the telegram, Mitzi would hurry off to Salzburg, but also that Fanny was absent on a holiday. At one moment I suspected the plump servant girl of being Giulay's accomplice. What if her going to visit her dying mother had only been a feint? Suppose that she had returned in order to admit Giulay? However, I soon set aside this theory; Fanny was altogether devoted to Mitzi, and no consideration could have decided her to do such a treacherous thing.

I asked both of them, Mitzi as well as Fanny, whether anybody had known that the latter would have a three days' holiday. As I did not want to tell them why I asked the question, they did not think as hard as I should have liked. They could not remember. And Mitzi who, of course, guessed that my inquiry was somehow connected with the great mystery, only wondered why I still worried over that old, half-forgotten affair.

There is, as a matter of fact, a mistake into which readers of detective stories are generally enticed. It is to believe that the persons involved are doing nothing else but thinking of their case. They have no business, no trade nor profession, they have no friends to call upon, they have no letters to write, no plays to see, no books to read, they hardly ever rest, and they wash, dress, eat, and sleep only when it is necessary for the conduct of the case. This is all untrue; in reality, it happens quite otherwise. I am sure I was as interested in my case as any detective in his, yet I thought of it only occasionally, and I went on having my lessons with old Hammer as well as with Mr. Doblana and thinking of my Macbeth.

When the horn-player first heard of my operatic ambitions, he said that it would be quite a good exercise, and that writing was the best way to learn how to do it. The opera would certainly not be performed, but that did not matter, as I was not working for money, being sufficiently well off without the paltry sums which I might earn in the form of royalties.

With Hammer it was quite otherwise. He grew immediately enthusiastic. Enthusiasm was one of his principal features. My words, repeated rather parrot-like from what Bischoff had said to me, namely, that it would be "a tissue of terror, of trembling, of anxious forebodings and of dreadful silence," pleased the old organist specially. To say the truth, I had no proper idea of how this tissue was to be produced.

Hammer told me that it always had been his ambition to write an opera, but that he never had been able to find a libretto which he had judged suitable for his particular talent.

"Bischoff has proposed Macbeth to me too," he said. "But the objection that I believed myself unable to express the local colour was too great. I was afraid of failing in one of the most important points. This danger does not exist for a Scotchman like you."

"But I am no Scotchman."

"Isn't Hampstead in Scotland?" (He pronounced it Hampshtead with his undeniable Austrian accent.) "You told me, it was up North."

"North London—and you must not tell that to a Londoner—they believe it is West."

"I regret it for your sake. Have you any idea of Scotch folk tunes?"

"I know Auld Lang Syne."

"That is better. But I advise you, before you begin with the composition of your great work, to write a few Scotch songs as an exercise, like Wagner, who wrote a few songs as studies for his Tristan."

The advice seemed good to me, and I composed fifteen Scotch songs as an exercise for Macbeth which, according to Mr. Doblana, was itself but an exercise for future operas. I chose them among the many lyrics, which exist in good metrical German translations, so that I had them ready in both languages. I wrote my songs in what seemed to me an incredibly short time at the rate of a song a day. Modest as I am, I must nevertheless confess that they are not bad, considering that I am ... no, that I was a British composer. British composers have been told so many times about their having no talent that they have come to believe it. But it is not true. We have quite as much heart and feeling and imagination as other nations. Only we have also the fog. Which means that we may be allowed to be born in our isles, but that we will do well to go and compose somewhere else. This is what by chance I had done. Thus it happened that my fifteen Scotch songs were quite possible, and one at least was good. But who would not have been inspired by Sir Walter's immortal words?

"Breathes there the man, with soul so dead.
Who never to himself hath said

This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,

From wandering on a foreign strand!"

These songs have never been printed, yet I am glad to have written them. They sleep in a drawer in a nice cosy house in Belsize Park. They sleep, but they are not dead. They live in my memory and remind me of the most beautiful day which was yet given me to live.

Post.

And an exceptionally big mail, containing three letters and a few papers. The "Illustrated London News," sent to me by an old aunt. They are full of war pictures which she forwards to me so that I may have an idea how things look in reality, as we in the trenches have certainly only a very vague idea of the aspect of the whole business.

One of the letters is from a lady who signs Thirza Ellaline de Jones, and is addressed to my regimental number only.

"Dear Nº...," it runs, "if, as I suppose, you are a lonely soldier, I wish to inform you that I am willing to offer you my friendship, for I am myself a lonely maiden. I often think how awful it must be for you to have nobody to think of, and that in your murderous business you are never relieved by that wonderful thought: 'It is for her that I do all these sanguinary deeds.'

"I am of a romantic, passionate nature, and I am sure you ought to like exchanging ideas with me. My character is rather pessimistic, having thoroughly read Shopenower (sic!), yet I feel sure I could cheer you up. Besides, I think that our acquaintance, started under the fire of the guns, could after the war lead to a more pleasant union. I am scarcely of middle age, but I look much younger than I am, and I feel younger still. I do not enclose my photo, for I think that men who have gone through the serious business of war are not concerned with trifles. But I may add this: The war will not finish before every man is disabled. You will then be entitled to a pension. If it pleases you, you may now add to this the amount of my private income which is of £140 a year.

"Answer by return, and you will be a dear.

"Yours ever,

"Thirza Ellaline de Jones."

The letter is typewritten, and the traces of wax on the back show that it is reproduced from a stencil. What a mania!

The second letter is from a firm, Levy and Levy, who offer the highest prices for souvenirs, especially for German helmets.

And the third one is from home.

"My dear Patrick," writes the mater, "we are glad to hear that you are all right, and hope that you will endeavour to keep so. I strongly advise you to wear the same underclothing you are used to, namely, that of Doctor Lahmann. I would have sent you some, but I find that their place in Holborn has disappeared. They have probably been wound up by our Government, who do not see the difference between good and bad things. But I imagine that among the prisoners you take, you will find one able to procure from Germany whatever you want.

"I do not know on what mysterious business Bean is engaged. But she comes three times a week to town, all the way from Bedford. She says that what she does is a holy duty, which I think is rubbish. I suspect father of being in the secret and resent his hiding it from me. Still, I must say that she is as pretty as ever, even prettier. And also that old Dicks is making pots of money out of a big Government contract for tinned vegetables.

"I regret your enthusiasm over father's silly idea to upset you by having your Scottish march played in the middle of the battlefield, instead of leaving you quiet and cosy in your trench. I hope that you will soon send us good news. I remain your always loving

"Mother."

And dad joins a half sheet:

"My darling boy,

"Nothing could please me more than the thought that you have been happy for a moment, while hearing the 'Pibroch o' Donuil Dhu.' I am so busy that I have scarcely the time to write. I will only add to what your mother says, that a word to the wise will be sufficient. Bean is the dearest girl I know and will be quite well off. And between men I may say this: I know you used to object to her being so thin. She is growing plump now.

"A thousand kisses from your loving

"Daniel Cooper."

Bean plump, Bean growing actually plump! I confess that this opens perspectives I had not suspected. Still....

You see, she is nine years my junior. And as I am twenty-nine (rather a ladylike age, isn't it?) you will be able to calculate that she is twenty. And I suppose that it is also twenty years since our respective respected parents regard us as betrothed. Yet, it has never been spoken out openly.

Violet Dicks, commonly called Bean, is indeed pretty. She plays the piano a little, but with such apathy that I have always avoided listening to her other musical achievements, which consist in a little singing and a little concertina playing. However, I must say that there is something like mutual consent in my ignorance of her musical performances. She is very shy, not generally, but in matters musical, and would never dare to sing or to play to a composer, even to an abdicated one. She plays tennis, but is no good at bridge. She writes many unimportant letters, all exceedingly short, and never reads a book, nor anything else. She spends all her pocket-money on dragging her mother to London every time a new musical play comes on. She says she loathes them, but she is always hoping that there will one day be a good one. She is also interested in petty charities, bazaars, garden parties, and so on. And as far as it is possible with her, she is in love with me.

But I do not think that hers is one of those great, magnificent loves we read of in books. She is more a vegetable than a flower; as a flower she is only a violet, as a vegetable only a bean. A green bean. A slender, green bean.

Yet I have a certain tender feeling for her. I should not like her to suffer in the least. I feel myself quite capable of marrying her, and even of being a good husband to her, if it were absolutely necessary. On no account could I let her die from a broken heart. But then, I suppose it would not break.

She is not, like Thirza Ellaline de Jones, of a romantic, passionate nature, nor does she even know that Schopenhauer ever existed. And if it were essential for a lonely soldier like me to exchange ideas with a female, I would rather do it with Bean who has none, than with Thirza Ellaline who has less. As for the reason why I do all these "sanguinary deeds," Thirza Ellaline must excuse me and mind her own business. There exists something which I should call the chastity of patriotic sentiment, and it would be immodest to divulge it.

No, Thirza Ellaline, oh thou of the unphotographable face! In spite of thy private income of £140 (and I add, not because of Bean's income which is probably twenty times bigger, a fact that I could overlook if thou wert a little more photographable and a little less pessimistic) I say nay to thee. Nay—never!

Whereas Bean... It is still: "not yet." But I confess that the idea of her has been growing lately somewhat more familiar. I do not know when, why, nor how that change began. That she wept when she heard the "Pibroch o' Donuil Dhu" performed by the band of the Salvation Army has but little to do with it. Weeping under such stress has happened to more hardened people. Now there comes the news of her growing plump. But it comes as a mere abstraction, for I feel unable to imagine a flat pancake as a round dumpling. No, I don't know why, but there is now something in the word Bean—a meaning—which was not there before. It is but slight, yet it is. Still, can it ever grow as long as there lives the remembrance of another?

Let me tell you how it occurred.

I had finished those Scotch songs and was rather pleased with them. They were written to suit Mitzi's voice, and so one evening I played them to her. The one I preferred, namely, Scott's "Breathes there a man," was unfortunately the one which agreed least with her particular ability. But you ought to have heard her singing "My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here." There was such an ardent longing in her voice, such a desire of seeing again the mountains covered with snow and the "wild-hanging woods," and to hear once more the "loud-pouring torrents." It was all so true, so sincere. I made her sing it again and again. She appreciated Burns' words. She had only to think of the beautiful Austrian Alps which she knew so well. But she understood also my setting of the words. She sang it as I would have done it, had I had a voice and mastered the difficulty of controlling it. She sang it directly out of my own soul. Never was there such a comprehension, such a communion of feelings.

She was standing behind me, a little to my right. Her pleasure in singing my song was equalled by mine at hearing her. When she had performed it eight or ten times I stopped at last. I was overcome with emotion.

And suddenly I felt her hand caressing my hair.

I trembled. I perceived something happening; a breath, so to say, a mere nothing. Joy and terror at once filled my heart. I gazed at her, and in the twilight I saw a tender smile around her lips. It made me feel out of breath, as if I had been walking too fast.

I got up. "Let us go out a little," I said, "the evening is wonderful."

We went. Doblana was at the opera blowing his hard part in the Mastersingers, which would keep him till nearly midnight, and we had two hours and a half before us. The streets were already empty, for Vienna is a town that goes to sleep very early, thanks to a twopenny fine imposed on each inhabitant who comes home after ten o'clock. The sky was clear and the moon looked like a round silver cake from which somebody had helped himself to a tiny slice of the crust. No stars were visible, but as we had gained the boulevard, the electric lamps growing smaller and smaller in the distance appeared like starry dust.

We entered the municipal park. It was quite empty, and the right frame for romantic amours. For I knew by now into what our companionship little by little had grown. My heart was throbbing, hers probably too, and we felt that the park was an accomplice of the sentiments which were leading us along our walk.

There are many cosy corners in that park. And each one of these corners is adorned with a statue. Before that of Schubert we halted. Why, I do not know, for it is not remarkable in any way. Yet we looked at it as if it had been the goal of our pilgrimage. We were as if transported. We were silent and gazed at Schubert as if he were something new and delightful, as if he were a new invention of the heart, enrapturing, transporting, fit to throw us into a sweet ecstasy. And yet he was only a fat gentleman in white marble, sitting in a chair and holding a conventional sheet of music paper in his hand.

Suddenly Mitzi began to sing softly:

"My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here..." and then the love that for months had been lying longingly at her door, and had voicelessly cherished her, the love, my love, broke forth. I caught her by the neck and bending my face down to her's I touched her lips, whispering:

"I love you, Mitzi, I love you."

Her eyes were closed and she kissed me back. Mine was a marvellous happiness, for I felt that I was her's, vanquished, beaten by her charm. My love was not a conquest, but a capitulation—and yet I was happy.

And now, pity me, compassionate reader, for ... do you know how long my happiness was to last? Fate, cruel, inexorable fate, had allowed me one minute, one single minute. Then a devilish laughter, coming from some hidden corner in the shrubs, awoke me.

Of the old guilds of Vienna one still exists. It is the Company of the Bootmakers. Originally established to afford aid to necessitous members of their trade, the Company by payment of large sums obtained various monopolies. In London there are bootsellers, dealers in boots, which are manufactured in big factories. In Vienna there are still bootmakers. Their Company having from entrance fees, fines, and so on, acquired some money which was employed in the purchase of land, became known, because of the rise in the value of property, to have amassed enormous wealth. The bootmakers are still divided into masters, companions, and apprentices; and so rich is the guild that to be an apprentice bootmaker is sometimes more advantageous than to be a master in another trade. So is the fact explained that you may see walking about in Vienna "bootmakers' lads" aged thirty or forty, very proud of their green aprons.

These "lads" provide one of the many typical figures of Vienna. They are the naughty boys of that city. There is no mischief they will leave undone, if they see a possibility of its performance. There is no cheeky remark they will leave unsaid. They are wasps, and every day a new exploit, or a new bon mot of a bootmakers' lad is told in Vienna.

It was such a lad who came laughing at us out of the shrubbery. I could have thrown myself upon him and given him the thrashing he deserved. But I stopped when I saw him in the moonlight.

He was a little man of about twenty-five. He was lame. He had black hair, a black moustache, and a pointed tuft of black beard on his chin, and with his mocking expression he reminded me of the Frenchman who at Salzburg had made room for ... Mitzi, of the conductor who had united me to ... Mitzi, and of the cabby who had brought me again to ... Mitzi.