When Frau Dinkelmann asked him to come out into the kitchen and have some supper, he stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket, and moved with alacrity into the rear room.
Frau Dinkelmann, sitting on the opposite side of the table while the baron ate, talked unceasingly in the German language. The baron, even if he had been so inclined, could hardly have got a word in edgeways. But he wasn’t anxious to talk. He listened mechanically, and ate mechanically. His mind was busy with the imprisoned lady who had sent him a penciled appeal on her handkerchief.
“I vonder iss she young?” thought the baron; “und is she goot-looking? Und vill she be gradeful oof I safe her from der Dinkelmann house?”
So far as the mere adventure went, the baron was not particular whether the lady was young or good-looking. But, if she happened to be both, the glamor of romance might be added to the undertaking.
“You vill shday der house in till morning?” inquired Frau Dinkelmann, dropping back into her English as the baron arose from the table.
“Could I talk mit Fritz in der morning?” he asked. “Vill he feel pedder mit himseluf den?”
“Yah, so. You shday und you can talk mit Fritz all vat you blease. I make you a bed der floor on.”
“I don’d like to shleep in der house,” demurred the baron. “I like pedder der oudttoors as a shleeping blace. I drafel mit fellers vat shleep oudtoors all der time, und I have got used to it.”
The baron was cunning. He knew that if he was supposed to be sleeping outdoors he would have a chance to examine the boarded-up window without arousing Frau Dinkelmann. He could also find the lady’s horse, and get both the horse and Toofer, the mule, ready for the road.
“Dere iss hay py der corral,” said Frau Dinkelmann.