CHAPTER XX
Herr Bjornston, the eminent Swedish sculptor, to this day blames himself mightily for what happened; so do Woolgast, the Chief of Police, Prince Zeula, Mr. Neville, and others, whereas the only person to blame is myself, and I don't blame myself over-much. Perhaps I was negligent, since I had been warned; it may have been conceit on my part not to take precautions, but, as I have already stated, I knew of no one who bore me a grudge with reason.
On this occasion I had, as was my habit, gone alone to the settlement to pass an hour before settling down to a bout of work with Zeula. I did not know then that, every time I did this, my dear old servant Bauen kept me under surveillance. He always shadowed me from the Palace to the settlement, watched where I entered and waited patiently until I reappeared; so often had he done this that he knew I never stayed more than fifteen minutes in any studio. It is to this knowledge of his that I owe my life.
It was a glorious evening, and I wandered down to the house in which Herr Bjornston had his studio. How wonderful it is that everything seems mapped out in life; I remember hesitating on the door-step, undecided whether to go in there or to some other studio. I was in two minds whether I should not go to a young Englishman's place to order a small picture which I wanted to give away, but I decided that the morrow would do for that, as the artist might be out; I therefore rapped at Bjornston's door.
It was flung open, and I stepped in. The door was closed behind me. I was in what was perhaps the finest studio in the place, a really magnificent room, but it was empty save for the man who had admitted me and myself.
"Is not Herr Bjornston in, then?" I asked.
"I expect him every minute, your Majesty. He had a message which called him away an hour ago; he told me that he would return at half-past nine."
I looked at my watch, it was already past the quarter.
"You think he will return then?"
"Undoubtedly, your Majesty; Herr Bjornston is never late."