Now, the face of the man seen in the dim light was the face of Baron Carl von Lichtenberg with the veil removed, the veil which every man wears whilst playing his part in the social comedy. The face that was looking down at me was both merciless and mad. Child though I was, I dimly felt that this man was at enmity with me, and that he not only feared me, but hated me.
"And now," said the woman in the same half-whisper, "what is to do? Will you bring them together?"
"To-morrow," said the Baron.
During this conversation, which had lasted some minutes, the Baron had never once taken his eyes from my face. I could support it no longer. I opened my eyes, tossed my arms, and, like a pair of evil spectres, my visitors vanished from the room.
Now that I was free of their presence, my terror became tinged with curiosity. Who was Margaret? Who was the person they referred to as being me? The other person?
In those questions lay the mystery and tragedy of my life. I was to have the answer to them terribly soon.
I listened to the turret clock striking the hours. This clock was of very antique make. The figure of a man in armour, larger than life, struck a ponderous bell with a mallet. You could see him in the turret, and my father had pointed him out to me as we drove up to the house.
As I listened, I pictured him standing there alone. A figure from another age and a far-distant time.