“Franz is waiting for the numbers!” he cried.
Albert tried hard to remember on which errand he had been sent.
Presently the agitated Veitel was before him. The wagon was outside and had to be loaded for the boat sailing for Coblenz and Albert stood there, staring at him like an idiot!
Veitel took a step back. The young man must have lost his wits. His wife had told him the boy had been acting queerly, always as if in dreamland.
For a moment Veitel was baffled. Perhaps he ought to run back for help. One could not tell what a maniac might do! The wife of a friend of his had been stabbed by a maid servant under similar circumstances, he recalled. She, too, had acted queerly—the maid servant had been melancholy—and suddenly, while she was peeling potatoes, she stabbed her mistress with her paring knife!
“Are you not feeling well, Albert?” Veitel’s tone was now soft, sympathetic, cautious.
He was moving back step by step, coaxing the young maniac to follow him. As soon as he emerged into the open Veitel gained courage.
“Where is the list?” he pleaded.
Albert shuddered. He could not free his mind from the illusion. He was still under the blue skies of Italy.
“Where are the numbers?” Veitel demanded.