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If my cousin, Geoffrey Bohun, had had to work for his living, he would, as a painter of portraits, have made his mark, for he was able not only to catch a likeness, but to render the spirit of his subject in a remarkable way: but work within doors he would not, and since he cared nothing at all for riches or fame, he painted old buildings and landscapes and lazy streams, and though I think that he painted these very well, the public would not have them, but clamoured for portraits instead.

Whether Geoffrey was right or wrong, I cannot pretend to say, but I must confess that I was glad of his choice, for since my parents’ death I had lived with him, and the work he preferred made us free of the countryside. Indeed, of the four years preceding the matters which I am to tell we had not spent six months at his London house, but had travelled winter and summer, at home and abroad, not at all as tourists, but wandering hither and thither according to Geoffrey’s whim. We visited many places which, if one may trust the guide-books, are scarcely known, and we saw all manner of beauties that few men see, for often enough my cousin would paint at dawn, when the dew lay thick upon the meadows and the mountains stood up like a rood-screen against the sky.

Of such was my education, after I left my school, and though I might have done better to go to Oxford instead, I learned to speak German and French with a pretty good grace and to share with the peasants of Europe their several hopes and fears.

Since our habits were very healthy, I was in as fine a condition as a man of two-and-twenty may be, and my only care was the knowledge that very soon now the agreeable life I was leading must come to an end. This by my cousin’s decree, for Geoffrey was trustee of my fortune, and though he was only some twelve years older than I, I had to a great extent to do as he said. And at twenty-three, he declared, I must take to work: “and from then,” said he, “till you’re thirty your allowance will be exactly as much as you earn. Earn five pounds a week, and I’ll give you another five. No more and no less, my son. You’ve got to make good.”

I was brooding on this one morning—for my birthday was the first of October, and June was very near out—when I heard the sound of voices a little way off.

This was unusual enough, for, save for the birds and beasts, an Austrian forest at dawn is a lonely place: but what was stranger still was that the voices were English, and coarse at that.

Geoffrey was painting a vista two furlongs away, and Barley, his man, was half a mile off with the Rolls. It was, therefore, plain that no one was talking with them, and I made my way quietly forward to see and hear what I could.

Almost at once I saw bushes which seemed to me to be screening the edge of some bluff, and though by now the conversation had ceased, as I approached, I could hear the sound of labour and the sob of a man as he wielded some heavy tool.

Then a spout of oaths startled the silence, and two men were cursing each other, the one alleging that the other would be his death and the other insisting that the one had got in his way.

A third man spoke.

“Suppose you go on now.”

“But he’ll do me in in a minute, layin’ about with that pick.”

“The world will be the cleaner,” said the other, and stifled a yawn. “Till then, get on with your work. I say, get on.”

His voice was deadly. Thin and quiet and icy, it seemed to cut like a lash, and I know that I winced to hear it, as though indeed a whip had been laid to my back. And so, I suppose, did the others, for without a word they fell to working again.

More curious than ever, I laid myself down on the ground and, wriggling cautiously forward, made my way into the bushes which screened the men from my view.

I shall never forget the scene.

Directly below me, in the midst of a sparkling dell, were five grown men. Two, with pickaxe and shovel, were digging a hasty grave: the sods had been piled to one side, but a third man was taking the earth and casting it into a brook which watered the dell for a little and then ran into a wood. A fourth man was leaning against the trunk of a tree, musingly regarding the others and smoking a cigarette. And the fifth lay dead beside him, with his mouth and his eyes wide open and his pitiful head on one side.

This spectacle shocked me so much that a moment or two went by before I had collected my wits: then I knew that the man had been murdered, for his gay, green, belted smock was heavily stained with blood.

As the porter came back from the brook—

“That’s enough earth away, Dewdrop,” said the man who had spoken last. “Take another stroll in the country and see there’s nobody up.”

The man who was shovelling stopped and straightened his back.

“Lemme do that, Pharaoh. I’m sick of this —— spade.”

The man addressed as Pharaoh wrinkled his brow.

“I’ve never liked you,” he said. “And when you question my orders, I like you less. There’s food for thought there, Rush. . . .”

I despair of describing the coldness with which he spoke: it lent to his words an inhumanity which made my blood run cold, and I was not surprised to see Rush pale before them and stoop to his labour again with goggling eyes.

An instant later Dewdrop was out of sight.

That I was now in some danger was perfectly clear, for Dewdrop had been charged to make sure that no one was doing exactly what I had done, and it seemed unpleasantly likely that if he should happen upon me, the four would spare no effort to take my life. I was, however, determined not to withdraw, for the corpse cried out for vengeance, and if once I lost touch with the rogues, my chance of bringing them down might be gone for good.

And here I should say that I had the strangest feeling that the dead was calling on me, for his head was so turned that his eyes looked full into mine, and his lips might well have been framing some frantic appeal.

I, therefore, decided to try and ‘pick up’ Dewdrop without delay, for, once I knew where he was, my woodcraft would probably beat him, and I could, as they say, bite the biter without being bitten myself.

Without more ado I therefore abandoned my covert and thirty seconds later I swung myself into a tree. . . .

Now though, because of the leaves, I could not look out for Dewdrop, I had a good hope that his movements would give him away, for the others were now out of earshot and, but for the piping of birds, the forest was still.

And so it fell out.

Almost at once I heard the fellow stumble over the root of some tree and two minutes later I was afoot behind him, some thirty paces away.

Now I had hoped that after a casual survey the man would return to the dell, for then I could reach my cousin and tell him my news. Whilst he was fetching Barley, I could then go back to my covert to keep an eye on the rogues, and when the others came up, we could decide together what action to take. Moreover, in the Rolls were two pistols, ready for use—for we had been robbed in Spain some three years before, and, having learned our lesson, had ever since carried arms. But Dewdrop stayed on.

To and fro he cast, patrolling the ground all about with the greatest care, till at last I saw that he would not return until summoned or until he knew that the sods were back in their place. This was disconcerting, for though, to be sure, he was noisy, he was doing his work too well for me to bring up the others until he was out of the way: indeed, I was inwardly cursing, when under my eyes the fat fell into the fire.

Dewdrop was passing the covert in which I had lain, when he stopped and peered at the bushes and then glanced round—this to my great surprise, for I could have sworn that only a forester’s eye would have detected such traces as I had left.

From behind a tangle of briers, I watched the man anxiously. . . .

Satisfied that no one was looking, he went on his hands and knees, to pluck from the heart of the bushes a paper some four inches long.

I shall never forget that moment—I think that my heart stood still: for, as my hand flew to my pocket, I knew what that paper was . . . a shoemaker’s bill, which had followed me out from London . . . complete with its envelope bearing my name and address—the address of the inn at which Geoffrey and I were lodging some five miles off.

It is my habit never to pocket such things: I do not pocket a letter once a year: but the day before, the post had arrived as we were leaving the house, so I read my bill in the car and then thrust it into a pocket for lack of a table on which I could lay it down. And I had forgotten the thing . . . God knows how it left my pocket, but, as I wormed my way forward, it must have made its way out, and when I crawled back, have stayed caught in the midst of the thorns.

I saw Dewdrop finger the letter and find it dry. Then he looked from his find to the spot at which it had lain. Then he lay down and drew himself forward, parting the bushes before him exactly as I had done. Plainly, the man was no fool. He wished to be sure how much John Spencer had seen—John Spencer, of The Three Kings, Lass.

The next moment he was up and was whipping back to the dell.

The murder was out.

* * * * * * * *

As we hurried back to the Rolls, I told my cousin my tale, and though he made no comment, I saw that he was perturbed.

Arrived at the car, he bade me take the wheel and drive to our lodging at Lass as fast as I could: as I let in the clutch, I saw him take out a pistol and slip it into his coat.

Ten minutes later we slid up a cobbled street, under an aged archway and into the yard of the inn.

As we stepped out, my cousin turned to his man.

“Put her away,” he said. “Then take the other pistol and come to our rooms.”

“Very good, sir.”

As we entered the inn, I heard him order our breakfast to be served in a quarter of an hour.

Our sitting-room was directly above the archway which led to the yard, and its old bay-window commanded the street below.

My cousin strolled to the bay and stood looking out.

“When Barley comes up,” he said, “I want you to tell your story all over again. Six eyes are better than four in a matter like this.”

I was glad of his words, for Barley was a very good man. He was young and strong and handy and very quiet: he did much more than his duty and used his brain: though he spoke no tongue but English, he never failed to make himself understood, and, as this tale will show, he was true as steel.

The door was opened and Barley came into the room.

My cousin spoke over his shoulder.

“Mr. Spencer has had an adventure. I want you to hear it, Barley, so he’s going to tell it again.”

I took my seat on a table and repeated my tale.

When I had done—

“Well, Barley,” said my cousin, “what do you think?”

“It’s a pity about that letter, sir, bearing the name and address.”

“A very great pity,” said Geoffrey. “Anything else?”

“If you ask me, sir, Mr. Spencer should have police protection.”

“He should,” said Geoffrey. “Go on.”

Barley hesitated. Then—

“If Mr. Spencer, sir, could describe the men . . . I’d like to hear what they look like. ‘Dewdrop’s’ a nickname, for sure. I take it he’s got a drop on the end of his nose.”

“That’s right,” said I. “I marked it. He’s a little dark man, very wiry. I think he’s a Jew. He wears a mournful expression and he’s very big hands. Pharaoh is tall and slight—much better class than the others and well turned out. His hair is fair, and he’s rather protruding eyes. Rush looks an awful blackguard. A very low forehead, and his ears stick out from his head. Very dark he is, and a scar runs down from the edge of his mouth to his chin. The fourth man looked the best of the lot. He was very broad and had rather an open face: rough, you know, but cheerful. Not very tall, but I’d say he was very strong.”

“Good,” said Geoffrey. He turned to Barley. “And now come and take my place. I mean, if they should mean business . . .”

As Barley stepped to the window, he flung himself into a chair and lighted a cigarette.

“These things happen,” he said. “It wasn’t your fault, my dear John, but if we don’t look out, it may be your great misfortune. In plain words, as you probably know, you stand in danger of death. You viewed at your leisure certain terrible rites which no one was meant to see. If you’d seen the murder committed, it wouldn’t have been so bad. But you can produce the body, to bear out your tale. You, therefore, know more than enough to send four men to the gallows—four desperate men. And those four know that you know it, and they know who and where you are. Well, there’s an old saying, ‘A man may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb’.”

“I can’t help that,” said I. “I’m sorry about that letter, but I’m not going to hold my tongue. They’d murdered that poor devil and they damned well ought to be hung.”

“‘Hanged’,” said Geoffrey. “‘Hanged.’ Never mind. I quite agree. They must be brought to justice—I’m inclined to think Fate sent you with that intent. But Fate works in a curious way, and at the present moment I’m thinking much less of their lives than I’m thinking of yours. You do see the point, don’t you? As long as you live and move, they go in danger of death: and they’re four to—three.”

“Yes, I see that,” said I. “We’ll have to go carefully, of course.”

“If we were at home,” said Geoffrey, “we should go straight to Scotland Yard. They’d give you armed protection and turn out the Flying Squad. But we are not at home. We are in the depths of Austria, at a curious old-world townlet, where Time stands remarkably still. I’ve hardly seen a policeman since I’ve been here, and I find it hard to believe that if we went to the police you would be given protection in any sense of the term. More. Give those four reason to think that you’ve been to the police, and they’ll strike out of hand. Your action, you see, would amount to a declaration of war.”

“But how can we bring them to justice, unless we go to the police?”

“I’ve no idea,” said my cousin. “I don’t like murder and I’m just as anxious as you to put the rope round their necks: but we’ve got to sit tight for the moment—extremely tight.”

“Meanwhile they’ll clear out of the country.”

“No, they won’t,” said Geoffrey. “I’ll tell you why. Those four didn’t come out here to do in somebody’s servant—for that’s who their victim was. What he had on was a tunic, and some of the old houses here still dress their people like that. Boots to the knee?”

“Undressed, brown leather,” said I.

Geoffrey nodded.

“He was wearing livery. Very well. Those four are here on some job, and the murdered man got in their way. He may have surprised them—as you did: and so they just bumped him off. But, unless I’m much mistaken, the job remains to be done. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have buried him. They might have hidden the body but, if they were leaving the country, they wouldn’t have taken the trouble to hide it like that.”

And here for the first time, I think, the thought came into my head that we stood all three on the edge of some grave adventure and that what had occurred that morning was but the prologue to some drama in which we must play our parts, in which rein would be given to instincts that knew no law and the bridge between life and death would be trodden again and again.

As though I had spoken aloud—

“And now,” said Geoffrey, rising, “I’ll lay before you the card that I’ve had up my sleeve. It’s not a very nice card, but it’s going to count quite a lot in this little game.

“I was staying with the Lyvedens in Hampshire a few years back. It was a Goodwood party, and the jewels in the house were worth a hell of a lot. Well, they were stolen all right. Barley wasn’t with me, but he’ll remember the case.”

“The Bell Hammer murders, sir?”

“Exactly. Three servants and a policeman were murdered by the fellows who took those jewels. They could have laid them out or tied them up: but they preferred to kill them, because then they knew where they were.

“They never got the thieves, but Anthony Lyveden told me as much as he knew: and amongst other things he told me that the moment they heard of the matter the police knew who’d done the job. Not the local police—Scotland Yard. Only one man, they said, was ruthless and daring enough to go such lengths. And the man was known as ‘Pharaoh.’ As I say, they never got him. You don’t get people like that.

“Now that’s all I know. This may or may not be the man. But if it is—well, from what I’ve just told you, you’ll gather that he doesn’t like witnesses.”

Here our breakfast was served, and whilst we ate, Barley stayed at the window to watch the street.

To my great dismay my cousin then announced that we must be gone from the inn as soon as we could, and when I protested that this would be running away, he desired me not to be foolish, but face the facts.

“It’s a question of tactics,” he said. “We’re out to fight these men. Well, the first thing to do is to vanish, for until we are out of their ken, we cannot attack, but must waste our time taking precautions against an attempt on your life. More. At the moment not one of those wallahs knows you by sight, and that’s a card which must not be thrown away. In fact, if I’d thought of it sooner, I wouldn’t have brought you back. And now you go out and lose yourself in the town. Barley and I will pack, and I’ll pick you up at nine in front of St. Jacques’. I shall give out we’re going to Salzburg, and Barley can go to the station and point the lie.”

“Where are we going?” said I.

“To Annabel,” said my cousin. “I liked the look of the village and I’m sure they’ll do us proud at The Reaping Hook. And now you pop off, my son. Every minute is precious, as you must see.”

Now, fool or no, I am sure that no man would have cared to be sent, like some woman or child, from the danger zone, but when I began to demur, my cousin showed a sudden impatience and, cutting my arguments short, thrust my hat into my hands and hustled me out of the room.

This took me so much by surprise—for I had not believed that Geoffrey knew how to be brusque—that, without thinking what I did, I made my way out of the inn, and when some servant or other ran after me, letter in hand, I took the missive from him as a man in a dream. Indeed, I was out of the street before I thought of looking to see what the letter might be. But when I did look, I had the shock of my life.

I did not open the letter—I had no need: for, for one thing, it was already open, and, for another, I knew what the envelope held. And that was a shoemaker’s bill.

* * * * * * * *

That I now felt far from easy, I frankly confess, for this return of my letter seemed like the service of some warrant that gave me formal notice of trouble to come. This, of course, was idle, as I very soon saw, but I could not get away from the fact that the enemies that I had made were no ordinary men.

First, they had frustrated the watch we had kept: then, they had gained their end, which was, of course, to get to know me by sight—for someone, no doubt, was in waiting, to see me come out of the inn: and, lastly, they had informed me in unmistakable terms that they were fully aware that I had seen them at work. All this, I may say, in a little more than an hour, for the clocks were striking seven, and Dewdrop had picked up the letter at about a quarter to six.

As I entered the bustling market, I wondered what Geoffrey would say. . . .

My cousin was a tall man, with handsome, clean-cut features and fine, gray eyes. His brain was swift and his judgment was very good, while his easy, gentle manner made him a host of friends. Yet this very manner concealed a strength of will as unbending as iron itself, and the smile which was so disarming could on occasion fade into a level stare that made an opponent falter and the words which he was using die on his lips.

It was, I believe, my thinking of my cousin and his efficiency that pricked me to take thought for myself, for it suddenly came to my mind that as like as not I now was being followed by whoever it was that had watched me come out of the inn. At once I determined to see if this was the case and if it was, to endeavour to turn the tables on the man who was so engaged.

Now a very little thought should have shown me that I stood no chance at all of beating one of the rogues at his particular game, but the efforts I made were, I suppose, good practice, and, as I shall show, the exercise bore me fruit.

I made my way out of the market and into an alley too narrow for carts to use. . . .

And here, perhaps, I should say something of Lass—that tiny, exquisite town, built in the lap of those mountains which make it the closest borough that ever was seen. The march of progress seems to have passed it by: because it is so fast land-locked, it cannot grow: and its stones were laid so truly as to make unprofitable the labour of pulling them down. So Lass has been spared—with its cobbles and closes and courts and its crooked ways, and its folk live much as their grandfathers lived before them, content with their miniature city and caring but little for the world. A good-looking car is still stared at, and I doubt if there is a bathroom in all the town: but I well remember that when the Mayor’s daughter was wed, for two hours one pretty old fountain was running with wine.

For more than an hour I wandered the curious streets, crossing and stopping and idling and turning back, but I never set eyes upon any one of the four or on anyone else that I could fairly suspect: and at last I knew that either I had not been followed, or, if I had, I had given my enemy the slip. Since this was so, I had only to meet my cousin at nine o’clock, and because my efforts had tired me and the sun was already hot, I decided to rest and drink before making my way to St. Jacques’.

I was now in a quarter of Lass that I did not know.

A crooked alley which I had believed to be blind had led me into a circus where five ways met. One of these ways, it was clear, led out of the town, for the peasants were trooping down it, because it was market-day. Not wishing to mix with the crowd, I bore to the left, only to find to my horror that I had selected the street in which the police-station stood. Perceiving a corner before me, I took it as fast as I could, and two minutes later I found myself in a square, with grass and old trees in its midst and sober-looking houses on every side. At one corner there stood a small café, as empty and clean as the square, and since this was just what I wanted, I sat down beneath its awning and called for beer.

I was sitting, drinking my liquor and thanking my stars that I had observed the police-station before I came up to its doors, when I saw a car going by on the opposite side of the square.

For a moment I sat spell-bound. Then I was up and was running as hard as I could.

The car was a cabriolet, very long and handsome and painted green. Its hood was raised, so that whoever was in it was not to be seen, but in front were sitting two chauffeurs—in curious livery. In a word, they were wearing green tunics, exactly like that of the man whom I had seen lying that morning, awaiting his grave.

I should not have come up with my quarry, for there was no other traffic and I was still thirty yards off when the driver swung the car out to turn out of the square, but because the way was narrow and her wheelbase unusually long, he had to mount the pavement in order to get her round. And this delay just gave me the grace I required.

The car was gathering speed when I flung myself on to the step.

As someone within exclaimed, I thrust my head over the door.

“Forgive me,” I said, using German, “but I have most urgent news. Of the very gravest import. I don’t know who you are, but you’re deeply concerned.”

A girl was regarding me as though I were less than the dust, and as the car came to rest, a hand was laid on my arm.

“How can your news concern me, if you don’t know who I am?”

The words were spoken in English, with the faintest American touch, and the tone was less cold than imperious—the tone of a lady accustomed to be obeyed.

The pressure upon my arm became very strong.

“I recognized your livery,” I said. “Hasn’t one of your men disappeared?”

The girl never moved, but her eyes looked straight into mine.

Then—

“Stand back, Franz,” she said quietly.

As the chauffeur let go my arm—

“What do you know,” she added, “of one of my men?”

“I know that he’s dead,” said I.

I saw her start at the word, and a hand went up to her mouth.

“And I know who killed him,” I said, “and I’ll help you to rope them in. But we’ll have to go carefully, because they’re a gang of four, and they’re pretty hot stuff. Besides, they didn’t kill him for nothing. I mean, I rather think there’s a good deal behind the crime.”

The girl looked at me curiously. Then she sat back on the cushions and glanced at her watch.

“I expect the police,” she said coldly, “will be glad to hear any facts. The station is in the next street.”

My speech was impetuous, I know, and never would have been spoken if I had had but a moment to choose my words: but to whip me so was monstrous, and the blood came into my face.

“On the other hand,” I said thickly, “the police may agree with you.”

“Agree with me—what do you mean?”

“That it’s none of my business,” said I.

With that, I made her a bow—for I had no hat to take off—and, inwardly raging at my treatment, turned on my heel and sauntered back to my café on the opposite side of the square.

As I gained the pavement, I heard a step at my side.

Then a chauffeur was speaking, hat in hand.

“Her ladyship, sir, would be glad of your name and address.”

“Tell her ladyship this. My name does not matter, and my address is this café—until I have finished my beer.”

The man withdrew, and, more enraged than ever, I sat myself down at my table and mopped my face.

I had been used with contumely, as though I had been some peasant, the worse for drink. This by a girl whom I was seeking to serve—a girl who was younger than I was, whose looks alone were insisting that she should know how to behave. . . .

As I glared at the grass before me, I could see the pride of her mouth and the lift of her delicate chin: when I shut my eyes, I saw her lovely temples and the sweep of her blue-black hair: when I frowned at my watch, I saw her aquiline nose and her great gray eyes: and when at last I looked up, there was the car before me with my lady’s face framed in its window and the second chauffeur standing beside the door.

“If you will forgive me, perhaps I can give you a lift.”

This unadorned apology acted on me as a charm. All my resentment vanished, as though it had never been, and I know that my heart leaped up at the sight of her eager beauty and the friendly light in her eyes.

I got to my feet, laid a coin on the table and picked up my hat. . . .

As I took my seat beside her—

“I’m to blame,” I said, “and I’ve nothing at all to forgive. I’m afraid I shook you up. But I—I hadn’t rehearsed this meeting and I guess I went off half-cocked. I shall do it again in a minute, so I’d better just tell you my tale.”

“One moment—where shall I take you?”

“If you please, to the church of St. Jacques.”

As the car moved off—

“I’m Helena Yorick,” said the girl, “and Yorick is the name of my home, some seven miles off.”

I gave her my name at once and then, without waiting longer, plunged into my tale.

When I had done—

“Are you sure you weren’t followed?” she said. “I mean, if you were, they now know you’re in touch with me.”

“I’m sure I wasn’t,” said I.

With my words the car stopped at the church.

“Well, you can’t get out here,” said the girl. “We must find a much quieter place. Besides, you must hear my story. Sit back in the car and don’t move. It’s only a quarter of nine.”

She gave some direction to the chauffeur and then sat back in her seat.

“My father died last November, leaving my brother and me. We’re Austrian, you know: but my mother taught me my English—she was American. My brother is younger than I am, and he’s away just now: so I rather run the castle, although, of course, he’s the Count. This duty takes me to Salzburg once a month. I made the journey by car four days ago. On the way an attempt was made to waylay me, and when I got through—I was driving—they chased me for thirty miles. I had a man with me called Florin. . . . Three generations of Florins have served our house. His father’s my warden—has charge of all the keys. Well, six men act as night-watchmen, taking the duty by turns. Old Florin chooses the men, and his son was one of the six. He was on duty last night, and this morning he couldn’t be found.” Her voice began to quaver, and I heard her smother a sob. “He was the finest fellow, and in his sight I think I could do no wrong. If I’d asked for his eyes, he’d have plucked them out of his head. I don’t know how to tell old Florin, and that’s the truth.”

To see her so near to weeping must have wrung anyone’s heart.

“I’m most dreadfully sorry,” I said. “And if you’ll let me help you, we’ll bring the blackguards to book. But you see my cousin was right. Florin was nothing to them, but he got in their way.”

“Yes,” said the girl, “that’s clear. The night-watchman got in their way.” With a sudden movement she turned. “But you must keep out of this. I don’t like Annabel much. Can’t you go home?”

“I’m not going home,” said I, “till I’ve seen this through.”

The girl laid a hand on my arm.

“Don’t be foolish,” she said. “This quarrel is mine—not yours. Young Florin was not your man. Besides, you can do no good because they’ve got your number: lift a finger against them, and they won’t do another thing till they’ve put you out.”

“The point is this,” said I. “That you don’t want to fight them with me is natural enough. I fancy you’re shy of strangers and you know nothing of me. But if I like to take on the brutes that’s my affair. I’ve given you information which it was right you should have, and that, I frankly admit, is the end of my duty to you: but I owe that dead man a duty, and, by God, I’m going to do it. If you’d seen him dead, as I did, you’d feel the same. I tell you, he called upon me. . . . Why, if I cleared out to England, I’d never sleep sound again.” I broke off to mop my face. “My cousin’s with me,” I added, “and so is his man.”

There was a little silence.

Then—

“I wish,” said the girl, “I could have a word with your cousin. Do you think he could meet me this evening at—at a farm that I know?”

“I’ll bring him with me,” said I, “wherever you please.”

Lady Helena looked away.

“You can come if you like,” she said. “But I want to see him.”

Then she took up a large-scale map and showed me the farm. This went by the name of Plumage and lay some four miles from Annabel, quite by itself.

“At five o’clock, then?” says she.

I nodded.

“We shall be there.”

“And now,” she said, “I must drop you. Do you know where you are?”

I glanced about me.

“Yes,” said I. “We’re five minutes’ walk from St. Jacques’.”

“That’s right.” She peered at the street. “And it seems quiet enough about here.” She touched a switch, and the car began to slow down. “Please don’t stand still when you’re out: start walking at once. And thank you very much for doing your duty to me. And—and don’t forget that that’s ended.”

As I took her slim hand, her steady gray eyes met mine.

“True,” said I. “But my duty to Florin remains: and I’m not so sure as I was that he called upon me for vengeance.”

“What else?” said the girl.

“He loved his mistress,” I said. “As he died, he may have been thinking that she would be short of a man.”

And then I was out of the car and was sauntering down the pavement as though I had strolled for an hour.

Except for a crone with a bucket, there seemed to be no one in sight.

* * * * * * * *

As the Rolls swept over a crossing and on to the Salzburg road—

“I’m almost sure,” said Geoffrey, “that we’ve stolen a march on our friends. They may have been watching the inn, but I can’t believe they expected a movement like this. Of course they may stick to Barley, but that I doubt. And in any event he’ll give them the slip at Salzburg.”

“At Salzburg?” I cried.

“That’s right,” said my cousin. “He’ll be in that city to-night. To-morrow he’ll come back to Villach, and there we shall pick him up as soon as it’s dusk.”

“You’re taking no chances,” said I.

“D’you blame me, John? I mean, the return of your letter was pretty good work. Talk about a riposte. . . . And you may have been seen with my lady; in which case, as she observed, the job, whatever it is, will go by the board, and Pharaoh and Co.’s one idea will be to do you in. She’s no damned fool, this gray-eyed goddess of yours. That’s probably her American blood. And her Austrian made her standoffish. These old Austrian families are terribly strict.”

“She made amends,” said I. “No one could have been more—more gracious.”

My cousin laughed.

“Goddesses are gracious,” he said. “And now please look behind you and keep your eyes on the road. If there’s nothing whatever in sight, in three or four minutes I’m going to turn off to the left.”

Five minutes later we were in the depths of a beech-wood, and the main road was half a mile off.

We now made no more haste and since my cousin took us a roundabout way, it was long past noon when we stole into Annabel.

The hamlet might have been sleeping, for the men were abroad in the fields, and the women were keeping house, and the children were gone to their fathers, to take them their midday meal.

Geoffrey berthed the car in the shade of some limes which grew fifty yards from the inn, on the opposite side of the way.

“You go in,” he said, “and have a look at the rooms. I imagine they’re quite all right, but you never can tell.”

I left him filling a pipe and walked to The Reaping Hook.

This was a pleasant inn, standing back from the road. The house was old and well built of stone and oak, and though, I fancy, its custom must have been slight, there was nothing mean about it, within or without. We had supped there some three weeks back and had found the service eager and the kitchen uncommonly good, but, while I had not much doubt that the rooms which the host had to offer would do very well, good board does not warrant good lodging, as every traveller knows.

The day seemed destined to be a day of surprise.

As I entered the great, stone tap-room, it was clear that all was not well. The room was not swept and garnished as when I had seen it last, a settle was lying on its back, with its chest disgorging a medley of household stuff, and a sordid stain on a wall led down to a puddle of beer and a broken glass. As I stood, frowning, the maid that had served us so blithely brushed by me, blowsed and sullen, without a word, and when I passed on to the kitchen, in search of the host, I found his wife railing at a scullion, with tears running down her cheeks.

It now seemed clear that some brawl or other had lately disordered the house and I began to wonder whether the host was absent because he had suffered some hurt. The poor woman’s state, however, forbade my questioning her, and indeed as soon as she saw me, she threw her apron over her head and abandoned herself to her grief. I, therefore, turned to the scullion and asked him where his master might be, but the man seemed dull of comprehension and I had to shake him by the shoulder before at last he muttered that the host was upstairs.

I was now quite certain that the man was lying abed because he had been hurt in some fray, but when I asked the scullion, he only stared, and I made up my mind to go up and see for myself.

I made my way to the staircase which rose from the hall, and a moment later had gained a fine, broad passage which ran the length of the house. Since the stairs rose again, I was about to go higher, when the door of a room was opened, and the maid who had passed me came out, wide-eyed and breathless and trembling as though some terror or other had teased her and let her go.

Again she would have gone by, but I caught her arm.

“What’s the matter?” I cried. “Where’s your master?”

She pointed to the room she had left and fled downstairs.

I now began to think that the man must be dead, for he was a mild old fellow and not at all the sort that drinks himself into a fury and puts his household in fear. However, I made up my mind that, having come so far, I had better go on and I walked to the door and stood listening before I knocked.

For a quarter of a minute I listened, but heard no sound, and my hand was raised, ready to knock, when somebody spoke—and before he had spoken three words, I knew the answers to the riddles which I had been trying to solve.

I knew why the house was disordered and why I had not been received: I knew why the maid was trembling and why the goodwife was in tears: and I knew that, be they never so pleasing, the rooms at The Reaping Hook were not for Geoffrey and me . . . for the voice was the voice of Pharaoh, who was speaking pretty fair German and was recommending the landlord to do as he said.