Count Zarka had paid his accustomed visit to Gorla’s farm, and was far from pleased to find Philippa absent, and no hint left behind of her whereabouts. He chatted for a while with her father, but the talk on either side was hardly of an exhilarating nature, both men having in their hearts a cause for annoyance.
“Has your friend, the Lieutenant, been over here this morning?” Zarka asked unceremoniously.
Harlberg shook his head ill-humouredly. “No. I have seen nobody, but Philippa for a moment. This is exile, indeed.”
His guest gave a shrug. “Unhappily a necessary evil, although one which you may hope need not last much longer. But we will try and make it as pleasant as you will allow us. My cousin Royda d’Ivady is anxious to come over and see your daughter. Fräulein Philippa seems to avoid company, and we do not like to intrude.”
Perhaps it occurred to Harlberg that his guest was hardly the man to let any diffidence on that score stand in the way of his pleasure; but he merely replied by a few words of protest.
“I had, indeed, a message from my cousin,” Zarka said, rising to conclude an interview which bored him. “Have you any idea which direction Fräulein Philippa took?”
“No. She said nothing to me, except that she was going. Will you leave your message, Count?”
No; it was hardly worth while. The Count would probably meet the Fräulein, as he was going to ride home by the forest. So, with an impatience he scarcely troubled to disguise, he took his leave.
But he did not meet Philippa as he expected. She and her lover avoided the open rides on their walk homewards, for interruption was just then the last thing they courted. Within a radius of a good mile from the farm the Count cantered, up one path, down another, ever keeping his sharp eyes on the alert, but all to no purpose. Not a sign of her whom he sought was to be seen. He was, assuredly, not a man who took baffling well, and his expression as he urged his horse in and out the woodland tracks was not an amiable one.
Suddenly something happened which intensified his alertness. As he rode down a somewhat wilder and more intricate path his horse jibbed and shied slightly, showing unmistakable signs of uneasiness. Knowing that the well-trained animal would not behave thus without good cause, Zarka took notice of the side from which the disquieting influence proceeded, and then, dismounting, he pushed his way through the undergrowth to discover the reason. It lay but a few paces before him—the wild boar which D’Alquen had wounded, and which now lay dead where he had fallen. A very cursory glance enabled the Count to take in the fact that the animal had been shot. He looked round for farther evidence; he listened eagerly for voices. Nothing unusual was to be seen or heard. To his sportsman’s eye the track of the boar was plainly indicated. He followed it for a short distance and came upon a book lying on the ground. He eagerly picked it up. It was a novel, and on the fly leaf was written in pencil “Philippa Carlstein.” He shut the book with an impatient flick, and looked round with lowering face. For a while he stood in thought, as though imagining what had occurred there. The fancy was not a pleasant one, to judge by the deepening frown and the set jaw; presently he roused himself to action, thrust the book into his pocket, went with quick, purposeful step back to where he had tied his horse, mounted and rode off towards the grange. He trotted his horse up to the door at a pace which spoke of haste and importance.