Both he and I were depressed at the thought of the parting, and I am sure our minds were full of darker forebodings than we cared to acknowledge; but Strode’s dry humour and happy-go-lucky temperament kept up our spirits; carelessness of self is infectious, as every soldier knows.
We reached the spot where the Eilwagen was to pass, and after some twenty minutes’ waiting it lumbered into sight. Thereupon we bade Von Lindheim God-speed and left him, thinking it just as well that he should appear alone. Still, in that wooded country we were able unobserved to see the last of him, and it was with satisfaction we noticed that the only passenger so far was an old market woman who sat beside the driver talking volubly. The accent of our friend’s hail was worthy of a real Englishman; the jolting vehicle pulled up, he threw in his bag and took his seat. There was just time for a wave of the hand unseen by the other occupants, and a turn in the road shut him from our sight.
I must confess that it was with a good deal of relief that I saw Von Lindheim safely on his way. I had my doubts as to the probabilities of his ultimate escape, the more so as I mistrusted his nerve at a critical juncture. Still, something had to be done, he had the advantage of a good start, and I had arranged that if there was no more chance of helping Fräulein von Winterstein I would follow him, it might be on the next day. But that was not to be.
I could not quite make up my mind whether it would be as well to tell Strode the real reason of my staying on at the inn in the Geierthal. His pluck, contempt of danger, and promptness of resource were all that I could wish; he was, I felt sure, staunch enough; yet I hesitated, and, although more than once on the point of doing so, said nothing that day of the imprisoned girl. We had plenty to talk of on our way back in the recital of the Chancellor’s methods of securing secrecy. However, I did not tell Strode what the particular affair was that had brought these men to their death. We made an arrangement to meet and shoot on the morrow, and I went back alone to the Geierthal.
On reaching the inn I found the coffee-room occupied by a young fellow whose appearance was so curious that I gave him a second glance. He was poorly dressed, of a very dark complexion, his lip was fringed with a slight moustache, while a mass of untidy black hair fell over his collar and stood out in front from beneath his cap, almost veiling his eyes. By the side of his plate stood an old concertina. A tramping musician, I thought; then looked again and, from habit, became suspicious. However, he had as much right there as I, so I ordered my dinner, explaining to the innkeeper that my friend was sleeping that night at the Englishman’s cottage to be ready for an early shoot in the morning.
Presently the young man took up his concertina and went out. From the window I saw him seat himself on the bench in front of the house, roll a cigarette and lazily smoke it, playing the while softly on his instrument.
“A travelling musician?” I asked the landlord.
He gave a shrug. “I think so. He says he came from Carlzig to-day. They sometimes pass this way, but not often; there is not much to be picked up here. No people, no pence.”
I thought it strange enough to be suspicious; but when I went out a little later the musician was gone and I saw him no more.