"Go then. You will be on duty later?"
"Until morning, Herr Rowland."
"Good. I may have a message to send."
The man bowed and departed with the younger Benz, while Rowland watched them in silence until their figures were merged into the night.
Berghof murdered! By whom? And why? The answers to these questions were obvious if he chose to follow the train of thought that was uppermost in his mind. Had Hochwald killed him? Or Förster? or another agent of von Stromberg? The motive one of two things, to secure the black bag filled with the bank notes which Berghof had taken, or to silence a tongue which had already spoken too much. Or perhaps both. Whatever the facts, the death of the man with the squint was eloquent of the fact that Rowland had not been far wrong in his deductions. Herr Berghof had paid the penalty--either of cupidity or disloyalty to those who employed him. In any event it was clear that if the black bag had ever been in his possession it had now passed to a confederate--or to Gregory Hochwald! And therefore if----
A warning sound from Herr Benz brought his speculations to a close for from within the grounds they had just left came the sound of an approaching motor car.
"It must have been hidden in the porte-cochère," Benz was muttering. "I did not see it."
As the machine approached, they walked toward it and it passed them at a rapid rate going in the direction of the village. Just one glimpse they had of the occupants, a chauffeur and a man wearing a cap, sitting in the shadow of the curtains in the tonneau and smoking a cigarette. Who was he? It was impossible to tell. But to Rowland's keen eyes the figure seemed strangely like that of Herr Hochwald.
Imagination? Perhaps. Rowland's interest in the villa Monteori was now such that he was ready to think anything that would confirm his growing belief that here was the prison of Tanya Korasov. Herr Benz too shared his excitement. Herr Hochwald hurrying to the Committee meeting he had called! The thing hung together. There were few enough motor cars in the Empire, and all those not in use by officials of Munich had been put into requisition for military purposes. There was but one machine in Starnberg, an ancient affair which could only be hired at a price beyond the means of any but the most wealthy of the town. He had seen a machine this afternoon rapidly passing his bakery which was on the highway to Munich--was it this very machine? It had a top like this, a chauffeur and one man sat within. He had commented upon its passage to his boy. The young fellow, who shared the mystery of their search, now voluntarily cleared their minds of doubt, for with that omniscience in all things which pertain to makes of cars, he ventured in a guarded tone--
"It is the very machine which came from Munich this afternoon."