The hour passed tolerably well. Herr Rosen then observed the time, rose and excused himself. He took the steps leading abruptly down the terrace to the carriage road. He had come by the other way, the rambling stone stairs which began at the porter’s lodge, back of the villa.
“Padre,” whispered Courtlandt, “I am going. Do not follow. I shall explain to you when we meet again.”
The padre signified that he understood. Harrigan protested vigorously, but smiling and shaking his head, Courtlandt went away.
Nora ran to the window. She could see Herr Rosen striding along, down the winding road, his head in the air. Presently, from behind a cluster of mulberries, the figure of another man came into view. He was going at a dog-trot, his hat settled at an angle that permitted the rain to beat squarely into his face. The next turn in the road shut them both from sight. But Nora did not stir.
Herr Rosen stopped and turned.
“You called?”
“Yes.” Courtlandt had caught up with him just as Herr Rosen was about to open the gates. “Just a moment, Herr Rosen,” with a hand upon the bars. “I shall not detain you long.”
There was studied insolence in the tones and the gestures which accompanied them.
“Be brief, if you please.”
“My name is Edward Courtlandt, as doubtless you have heard.”