At that moment the Count turned in his saddle and, looking back, saw they were watching him. He waved his riding whip. It was a mere flourish to cover his action of curiosity, and as such the two men recognized it. Then he put his horse to a trot and was quickly out of sight. The two looked at each other and laughed.
“I am glad, anyhow, he asked us up there,” Galabin said. “I want to take every opportunity I can get of examining the place. And I have a curiosity to see what our mysterious window looks like by daylight.”
Count Zarka rode on to Gorla’s Farm and announced himself with, for a ceremonious person, scant ceremony to Philippa Harlberg, whom he found in the house. Perhaps he had an idea that a more formal entry might result in his not seeing her.
“My father is smoking his cigar outside,” she said, as they shook hands.
He returned a protesting smile.
“I did not come particularly to see the General. I came to see you.”
Her reception of the announcement was hardly encouraging, yet she had to submit to the visit with as good a grace as possible.
“I have had news to-day from town,” he observed; then stopped, watching her.
“Ah, yes?” There was repressed apprehension in her tone which he was too clever to fail to notice.
“Prince Roel has not yet been found—dead or alive.”