So they set out together for the farm.
“I wonder if we shall come across our friend of last night,” Von Tressen observed, for while the servant, Bela, had been near they had not spoken on the subject.
“Ah,” Galabin replied thoughtfully. “I have been thinking it over, and have come to the conclusion that the fellow is a patrol, a spy of Zarka’s. What else could he have been prowling about for?”
“That might be said of us. We were doing the same.”
“True. But it is hardly likely that another man would have the same purpose as ourselves. No; the other solution is far more probable. Now, what does Count Zarka, ostensibly a rich nobleman living on his country estate, want with a patrol, or a spy?”
Von Tressen shook his head. “The Count is deeper than I can fathom.”
“Or I. We must wait for eventualities, and meanwhile keep our eyes open.”
They soon reached the farm, and found father and daughter in the little enclosed shrubbery before the house. Herr Harlberg excused himself from joining their sport on the plea of a gouty foot, but welcomed his visitors and insisted upon their drinking a glass of wine with him. Presently Von Tressen found himself strolling with Philippa Harlberg in the half-cleared woodland which surrounded the old farm, Galabin, with an eye to the situation, having plunged deep into a political argument with his host.
“So you have found another friend to join your gipsy life,” she remarked. “The attractions of the forest must be great indeed, or is it the charm of friendship?” she added banteringly.
“The charm of the forest life is delightful,” Von Tressen replied. “One cannot wonder at its being an all-powerful attraction. If my friend only enjoys it half as much as I he will not repent having cut himself off for a time from cities and civilization. I am so glad, Fräulein, that the hand is well again.”