“Yes, certainly,” answered Mildmay. “But I think we had better return to the ship for a moment, and acquaint Sir Reginald with our non-success thus far, and what it is that we propose to do. It is always well to provide against contingencies as far as possible.”
“Right!” assented the professor. “Let us go at once. I am chilled to the bone with so long a waiting.”
A quarter of an hour sufficed the pair to return to the ship, explain the state of affairs to the rest of the party, and make their way back to the spot at which they had been so patiently maintaining their watch; and another half-hour of steady walking took them within sight of the château, where Mildmay snugly ensconced himself behind a big clump of laurels, through the boughs of which he was able to maintain a close watch upon the main entrance of the building.
The château did not, in this instance, belie its designation, being, in fact, a massive, gloomy-looking, castellated, stone building, with battlements, turrets, small windows, a moat, a drawbridge, and a portcullis, the lower portion of which showed in the head of the archway that gave access to the interior of the building. The drawbridge was lowered, and, from his coign of vantage, Mildmay saw the professor boldly cross it and walk up to the gate, through which, after a brief parley with the gate-keeper, he disappeared.
Von Schalckenberg’s inquiries were of a very prosaic and commonplace nature. He simply asked whether Count Vasilovich happened to be at home; and upon being informed—somewhat to his surprise—that he was, he scribbled a word or two in Russian upon one of his cards, and directed the gate-keeper to send it up to the count at once. The gate-keeper very civilly invited the professor into his lodge, a small room formed in the thickness of the castle wall, and, ringing a bell, sent in the card by a servant who appeared some three or four minutes later.
An interval of some ten minutes now elapsed, during which the professor warmed himself at the gate-keeper’s fire, contriving meanwhile, by a few skilfully put questions, to extract the information that, the count’s horse having fallen lame that day in the streets of Saint Petersburg, Vasilovich had returned home by rail, and had reached the castle by way of the other gate, which sufficiently accounted for the watchers having missed him.
At length the servant who had taken in von Schalckenberg’s card returned with the information that the count would see the professor; and forthwith the pair set out across the courtyard, entering the building by way of a heavily studded oaken door, which the servant carefully locked and barred behind him, to the momentary dismay of the visitor, who was scarcely prepared to find the observance of so much precaution on the part of the man whom he had come to take prisoner. However, he slipped his hands into the side pockets of his heavily furred overcoat, and then withdrew them again with a quiet smile of renewed confidence; he was essentially a man of resource, and his faith in himself quickly reasserted itself.
The professor’s conductor led him through a long, stone-vaulted passage, dimly lighted at intervals by oil lamps, that flared and smoked in the draughts that chased each other to and fro, until at the very end he paused before a door, at which he knocked deferentially. An inarticulate growl answered from the other side, whereupon the servant flung open the door, motioned von Schalckenberg to enter, and promptly closed the portal behind him.
Pushing aside a heavy curtain, or portière, that stretched across the doorway, the professor found himself in a large and lofty room, ceiled and wainscoted in oak, the walls hung with oil pictures so completely darkened and obscured with smoke and grime that it was impossible to distinguish what they were meant to depict. The stone floor was carpeted with skins, and a long, massive oak dining-table ran the length of the room, which was lighted during the day by three heavily curtained windows, and now by a solitary lamp. At the far end of the room stood one of the enormous porcelain stoves, which are such a feature of Russian interiors, balanced at the other end by an immense sideboard. The table was undraped, save at the far end, where sat, with his back to the glowing stove, a burly, thick-set man, attired in an undress military uniform. He appeared to be about forty years of age; he wore his hair cropped short, and his face was partially hidden by a heavy, unkempt beard and moustache. He had evidently just dined, for the draped extremity of the table was littered with the remains of a repast, he was smoking an immense pipe, while a tumbler of steaming vodki stood close to his hand upon the table. This individual was Count Vasilovich; and he was alone. He made no movement to rise at von Schalckenberg’s entrance, but stared intently at his visitor, twisting the card in his hand in a nervous, impatient way.