“I must leave you for a time. I go to announce your arrival.”
With this he stepped from the apartment, closing the door behind him.
Too much excited to spend the interval in sitting down, Wilfrid paced to and fro for a few minutes.
Suddenly, he stopped short in his walk, and, without knowing why, shot a suspicious glance at the distant door. What lay on the other side of it he did not know, but he felt a sense of satisfaction in having come equipped with sword and pistols.
He resumed his pacing, though more slowly now, and even when his back was turned to the door, he moved, as a Spaniard would say, with his beard upon his shoulder.
That door haunted him!
It was in vain that he tried to divert his mind from it by examining the objects of art contained in the room: a rectangle of wood, seven feet by three, proved a greater attraction than oriental alabaster or porphyry vases. Many minutes had now passed, yet Wilfrid still remained the only person in the apartment.
Growing impatient at this long delay he went to the door by which he had entered, and peeped out into the gallery.
He could not see anybody, nor could he hear the sound of coming footsteps. No sound at all, far or near.
“Truly, they are quiet people in the Michaelhof,” muttered Wilfrid, as he closed the door again.