It was past eleven when he dismissed the taxi at the end of the long lane, and, following the only safe path, came to the unpainted door that gave admission to Oberzohn’s property. And the first words of his master told him that there was no necessity for explanation.
“So you did not get him, Gurther?”
“No, Herr Doktor.”
“I should not have sent you.” Oberzohn’s voice was extraordinarily mild in all the circumstances. “That man you cannot kill—with the snake. I have learned since you went that he was bitten at the blind man’s house, yet lives! That is extraordinary. I would give a lot of money to test his blood. You tried the knife?”
“Ja, Herr Doktor.” He lifted his veil, stripped off hat and wig in one motion. The rouged and powdered face was bruised; from under the brown wig was a trickle of dried blood.
“Good! You have done as well as you could. Go to your room, Gurther—march!”
Gurther went upstairs and for a quarter of an hour was staring at his grinning face in the glass, as with cream and soiled towel he removed his make-up.
Oberzohn’s very gentleness was a menace. What did it portend? Until that evening neither Gurther nor his dead companion had been taken into the confidence of the two men who directed their activities. He knew there were certain papers to be recovered; he knew there were men to be killed; but what value were the papers, or why death should be directed to this unfortunate or that, he neither knew nor cared. His duty had been to obey, and he had served a liberal paymaster well and loyally. That girl in the underground room? Gurther had many natural explanations for her imprisonment. And yet none of them fitted the conditions. His cogitations were wasted time. That night, for the first time, the doctor took him into his confidence.
He had finished dressing and was on his way to his kitchen when the doctor stood at the doorway and called him in.
“Sit down, Gurther.” He was almost kind. “You will have a cigar? These are excellent.”