Part 31 (1/2)

The pale girl, whom Grauble introduced as Elsa, languidly reached up her pink fingers for me to kiss and then sank back, eyeing me with mild curiosity. But as I now turned to be presented to the other, I saw the black-eyed beauty shrink and cower in an uncanny terror. Grauble again repeated my name and then the name of the girl, and I, too, started in fear, for the name he p.r.o.nounced was ”Katrina” and there flashed before my vision the page from the diary that I had first read in the dank chamber of the potash mine. In my memory's vision the words flamed and shouted: ”In no other woman have I seen such a blackness of hair and eyes, combined with such a whiteness of skin.”

The girl before me gave no sign of recognition, but only gripped the table and pierced me with the stare of her beady eyes. Nervously I sank into a seat. Grauble, standing over the girl, looked down at her in angry amazement. ”What ails you?” he said roughly, shaking her by the shoulder.

But the girl did not answer him and annoyed and bewildered, he sat down.

For some moments no one spoke, and even the pale Elsa leaned forward and seemed to quiver with excitement.

Then the girl, Katrina, slowly rose from her chair. ”Who are you?” she demanded, in a hoa.r.s.e, guttural voice, still gazing at me with terrified eyes.

I did not answer, and Grauble again reached over and gripped the girl's arm. ”I told you who he was,” he said. ”He is Herr Karl von Armstadt of the Chemical Staff.”

But, the girl did not sit down and continued to stare at me. Then she raised a trembling hand and, pointing an accusing finger at me, she cried in a piercing voice:

”You are not Karl Armstadt, but an impostor posing as Karl Armstadt!”

We were located in a well-filled dancing cafe, and the tragic voice of the accuser brought a crowd of curious people about our table. Captain Grauble waved them back. As they pushed forward again, a street guard elbowed in, brandis.h.i.+ng his aluminum club and asking the cause of the commotion. The bystanders indicated Katrina and the guard, edging up, gripped her arm and demanded an explanation.

Katrina repeated her accusation.

”Evidently,” suggested Grauble, ”she has known another man of the same name, and meeting Herr von Armstadt has recalled some tragic memory.”

”Perhaps,” said the guard politely, ”if the gentleman would show the young lady his identification folder, she would be convinced of her error.”

For a moment I hesitated, realizing full well what an inquiry might reveal.

”No,” I said, ”I do not feel that it is necessary.”

”He is afraid to show it,” screamed the girl. ”I tell you he is trying to pa.s.s for Armstadt but he is some one else. He looks like Karl Armstadt and at first I thought he was Karl Armstadt, but I know he is not.”

I looked swiftly at the surrounding faces, and saw upon them suspicion and accusation. ”There may be something wrong,” said a man in a military uniform, ”otherwise why should the gentleman of the staff hesitate to show his folder?”

”Very well,” I said, pulling out my folder.

The guard glanced at it. ”It seems to be all right,” he said, addressing the group about the table; ”now will you kindly resume your seats and not embarra.s.s these gentlemen with your idle curiosity?”

”Let me see the folder!” cried Katrina.

”Pardon,” said the guard to me, ”but I see no harm,” and he handed her the folder.

She glanced over it with feverish haste.

”Are you satisfied now?” questioned the guard.

”Yes,” hissed the black-eyed girl; ”I am satisfied that this is Karl Armstadt's folder. I know every word of it, but I tell you that the man who carries it now is not the real Karl Armstadt.” And then she wheeled upon me and screamed, ”You are not Karl Armstadt, Karl Armstadt is dead, and you have murdered him!”

In an instant the cafe was in an uproar. Men in a hundred types of uniform crowded forward; small women, rainbow-garbed, stood on the chairs and peered over taller heads of ponderous sisters of the labour caste. Grauble again waved back the crowd and the guard brandished his club threateningly toward some of the more inquisitive daughters of labour.

When the crowd had fallen back to a more respectful distance, the guard recovered my identification folder from Katrina and returned it to me.

”Perhaps,” he said, ”you have known the young lady and do not again care to renew the acquaintance? If so, with your permission, I shall take her where she will not trouble you again this evening.”

”That may be best,” I replied, wondering how I could explain the affair to Captain Grauble.