Part 40 (1/2)

”No. It's one on my own account this time. I shall be back in twenty-four hours. Goodby!” And I left him there, blinking in the dim light of the candle.

I rushed into the street and looked up and down it. Not a vehicle in sight. I must run for it. The railway station was a long way off. A fine snow pelted my face. I stopped at the first lamp and pulled out my watch. It was twenty minutes to three. What if the time-tables had been changed? A prayer rose to my lips; there was so much in the balance. Down this street I ran, rounding this corner and that. I knocked down a drunken student, who cursed me as he rolled into the gutter. I never turned, but kept on. One of the mounted police saw me rus.h.i.+ng along. He shaded his eyes for a moment, then called to me to stop. I swore under my breath.

”Where are you going at such a pace and at this time of morning?” he demanded.

”To the station. I beg of you not to delay me. I am in a great hurry to catch the 3:20 south-bound train. If you doubt me, come to the station with me.” An inspiration came to me. ”Please see,” I added impressively, ”that no one hinders me. I am on the King's business.”

”His Majesty's business? Ach! since when has His Majesty chosen an Englishman to dispatch his affairs? I will proceed with you to the station.”

And he kept his word. When he saw the gateman examine my ticket and pa.s.sports and smile pleasantly, he turned on his heel, convinced that there was nothing dangerous about me. He climbed on his horse and galloped away. He might have caused me no end of delay, and time meant everything in a case like mine. Scarcely had I secured a compartment in a first-cla.s.s carriage than the wheels groaned and the train rolled out of the station. My brow was damp; my hands trembled like an excited woman's. Should I win? I had a broken cigar in my pocket. I lit the preserved end at the top of the feeble carriage lamp. I had the compartment alone. Sleep! Not I. Who could sleep when the car wheels and the rattling windows kept saying, ”The innkeeper knows! The innkeeper knows!” Every stop was a heartache. Ah, those eight hours were eight separate centuries to me. I looked careworn and haggard enough the next morning when I stepped on the station platform. I wanted nothing to eat; not even a cup of coffee to drink.

To find conveyance to the inn was not an easy task. No one wanted to take the drive. Finally I secured a horse. There was no haggling over the price. And soon I was loping through the snowdrifts in the direction of the old inn. The snow whirled and eddied over the stubble fields; the winds sang past my ears; the trees creaked and the river flowed on, black and sluggish. It was a dreary scene. It was bitter cold, but I had no mind for that. On, on I went. Two miles were left in the rear. The horse was beginning to breathe hard. Sometimes the snow was up to his knees. What if the old man was not there? The blood sank upon my heart. Once the horse struck a slippery place and nearly fell, but I caught him in time. I could now see the inn, perhaps a mile away, through the leafless trees. It looked dismal enough. The vines hung dead about it, the hedges were wild and scrawny, the roses I knew to be no more, and the squirrel had left his summer home for a warmer nest in the forest. A wave of joy swept over me as I saw a thin stream of smoke winding above the chimney. Some one was there. On, on; presently I flew up the roadway. A man stood on the porch. It was Stahlberg. When I pushed down my collar his jaw dropped. I flung the reins to him.

”Where is the innkeeper?” I cried with my first breath.

”In the hall, Herr. But--”

I was past him and going through the rooms. Yes, thank G.o.d, there he was, sitting before the huge fireplace, where the logs crackled and seethed, his grizzled head sunk between his shoulders, lost in some dream. I tramped in noisily. He started out of his dream and looked around.

”Gott!” he cried. He wiped his eyes and looked again. ”Is it a dream or is it you?”

”Flesh and blood!” I cried. ”Flesh and blood!”

I closed the door and bolted it. He followed my movements with a mixture of astonishment and curiosity in his eyes.

”Now,” I began, ”what have you done with the proofs which you took from your wife--the proofs of the existence of a twin sister of the Princess Hildegarde of Hohenphalia?”

CHAPTER XXI

The suddenness of this demand overwhelmed him, and he fell back into the chair, his eyes bulging and his mouth agape.

”Do you hear me?” I cried. ”The proofs!” going up to him with clenched fists. ”What have you done with those proofs? If you have destroyed them I'll kill you.”

Then, as a bulldog shakes himself loose, the old fellow got up and squared his shoulders and faced me, his lips compressed and his jaws knotted. I could see by his eyes that I must fight for it.

”Herr Winthrop has gone mad,” said he. ”The Princess Hildegarde never had a sister.”

”You lie!” My hands were at his throat.

”I am an old man,” he said.

I let my hands drop and stepped back.

”That is better,” he said, with a grim smile. ”Who told you this impossible tale, and what has brought you here?”

”It is not impossible. The sister has been found.”

”Found!” I had him this time. ”Found!” he repeated. ”Oh, this is not credible!”

”It is true. And to-morrow at noon the woman you profess to love will become the wife of the man she abhors. Why? Because you, you refuse to save her!”