“Miss Knowles,” stated he, “is a good looker. She’s got a figure that makes the best of them look like cripples, and I never want to see a nicer smile. Along these lines she’s a winner, and I have nothing but praise for her.”
“But,” said Miss Hohenlo, attentively, “along some others you feel that you can not praise her.”
Bat acknowledged this by a gesture.
“Not that I am very definite in the matter,” said he, “for I’m not. You see——” but he stopped short as he was about to add something else, and after looking into the dull, uninteresting face before him, he said: “You’ve been here at Schwartzberg for some time, I suppose.”
“Since early summer. When Frederic wrote that he was here and meant to stay for a time, I was overjoyed. You see, I love the memory of the old count, my ancestor, and this place is so full of him.”
“Being given to staying indoors and to music and such,” said Bat, “you’d not be likely to see as much or notice as many things as some one who goes about more; but, for all that, you must have seen that there’s something the matter here in Schwartzberg.”
Miss Hohenlo arose; leaving the harp, she walked to a window and stood for a moment looking out into the darkness. When she turned, the dull eyes were filled with tears; the small face was piteous with pleading. All the affectation had vanished; her manner was simple and direct.
“Mr. Scanlon,” she said, “you are a friend of Frederic’s, and I am glad of the chance to talk with you upon this subject. As you say, there is something amiss in Schwartzberg; I’ve been aware of it for months. But my nephew is unapproachable upon the subject; I am ashamed to say he is more like a frightened child than a man whose life has been put in danger.”
“Deep waters,” acknowledged Bat. “And they may even run deeper still.”
The beautiful hands went out in a despairing gesture at this.