“They fight to-morrow,” said Von Schlegel. “I fear that our man will lose his beauty, for he is short in the arm. Yet activity and skill may do much for him. They say his hanging guard is perfection.”
“And what else is the news among the students?” asked Strauss.
“They talk, I believe, of nothing but the murders. But I have worked hard of late, as you know, and hear little of the gossip.”
“Have you had time,” inquired Strauss, “to look over the books and the weapons which our dear old Professor was so concerned about the very day he met his death? They say they are well worth a visit.”
“I saw them to-day,” said Schlegel, lighting his pipe. “Reinmaul, the janitor, showed me over the store-room, and I helped to label many of them from the original catalogue of Graf Schulling’s museum. As far as we can see, there is but one article missing of all the collection.”
“One missing!” exclaimed Strauss. “That would grieve old Von Hopstein’s ghost. Is it anything of value?”
“It is described as an antique hatchet, with a head of steel and a handle of chased silver. We have applied to the railway company, and no doubt it will be found.”
“I trust so,” echoed Strauss; and the conversation drifted off into other channels. The fire was burning low and the bottle of Rhenish was empty before the two friends rose from their chairs and Von Schlegel prepared to depart.
“Ugh! It’s a bitter night!” he said, standing on the doorstep and folding his cloak round him. “Why, Leopold, you have your cap on. You are not going out, are you?”
“Yes, I am coming with you,” said Strauss, shutting the door behind him. “I feel heavy,” he continued, taking his friend’s arm, and walking down the street with him. “I think a walk as far as your lodgings, in the crisp frosty air, is just the thing to set me right.”