It was just on ten o'clock, ten minutes, in fact, after Trafford had bluffed an exit from the Neptunburg; and Mrs. Saunders was sitting in the Rubens room in the company of Frau von Bilderbaum. To retire to bed in the present unsettled state of affairs was unthinkable, and the two women,—so unlike in temperament and feature, yet linked by the subtle bond of wifehood,—sat, to their mutual comfort, in the great state-room opening on to the palace courtyard. Disturbances were common things at Weidenbruck, but to-night there was an extra pressure in the atmosphere. The air was full of fever and unrest, pregnant with some issue of decisive import. A dull anxiety was written on the women's faces; their eyes seemed watching, their ears expectantly listening for something. The tension was almost unbearable in its strained silence, and Mrs. Saunders hailed her husband's advent with a sigh of relief.
"Where is George Trafford?" she asked again.
"I don't know," replied Saunders, "but he's not where I intended him to be—locked in my dressing-room with a brandy and soda, and a pack of cards to play patience with."
Saunders had entered from the courtyard, though the chamber possessed two other doors connecting it with the corridors of the Neptunburg. The room itself was of considerable size, rich in works of art, mellow with abundant candle-light and the numerous gold frames that housed some choice products of the old Flemish painters. The fireplace,—by which the two ladies were seated,—was a much carven affair of pale-rose marble with blue-purple markings. The tiles round the huge grate were of old Persian manufacture, holding the rich blue and green tints that modern chemistry strives so unsuccessfully to approximate. In one corner of the room stood a tall, ornate clock, presented to a predecessor of Karl's by the Pompadour: on the mantelpiece reposed a pair of porphyry vases, the gift of the late Czar.
Frau von Bilderbaum was smoking a cigarette in enormous puffs, her wide nostrils dilating spasmodically with the emotion that filled her capacious frame.
"Then you have no idea where this wretched American is?" she demanded in thick tones of pent wrathfulness.
"Not the faintest," replied Saunders. "If I hazarded a guess, I should say in the Strafeburg."
"A prisoner?" questioned Mrs. Saunders quickly. "I hope so."
"I hope so, too," said Saunders, "but I have my doubts; I wish I had never induced the fellow to come to Grimland—he is too much in his element. He is just the sort of lunatic to appeal to the average Weidenbrucker. But talking of lunatics, thank goodness Father Bernhardt is safe under lock and key at last!"
"How do you know?" asked Frau von Bilderbaum.