I was already up the steps, and in a few seconds had passed through the trap-door. It was pitch dark, but the way was familiar now, and I found the passage without difficulty. If I expected to see the light at the farther end I was disappointed; all was dark. I groped my way along on tip-toe till the wall against my hand came to an end at the entrance of the room into which the prison window looked. All was dark here too. I crept to the window but could see nothing, hear nothing. If there had been a light in the room some indication would have been visible, even though the curtain were carefully drawn across the window. No. I was satisfied that the room was in darkness. And yet it was almost too early for the prisoner to have retired for the night. The darkness and silence might mean nothing, and yet they filled me with a horribly uncomfortable surmise. I stood for a while in a state of indecision. But I could not bring myself to turn back in that spirit of uncertainty. I was committed to the business, my whole heart and soul were in it now, and the risk was nothing to me. The idea that I had that afternoon perhaps missed a chance, even if ever so desperate, of rescuing the prisoner maddened me. Of course all might be well and my anxiety groundless, but looking at the situation as calmly as I could it was impossible, knowing Furello and his creatures, not to fear.
With no exact purpose except to look about for what chance might show me, I made my way from the room and proceeded to explore the long passage further. It was an utterly rash and foolish move, but the impulse was strong upon me, and the very stillness of the place led me on. I ventured now to strike a light which showed me a distant door, towards which I hastened. Contrary to my expectations it was unlocked. I passed through it quietly; still all was darkness, and the same oppressive silence. Another lighted match showed me I was in a large basement room with a flagged floor, green with disuse. A door was opposite; I crossed and opened it. Darkness still. But another match revealed a flight of steps. I crept up and passed through yet another door. Then, by the aid of my light, I recognized my whereabouts. I was in a kind of inner courtyard on which I had lighted in my search the night before. To find my way to the great hall was now an easy matter, though risky enough.
Arrived there, I stood awhile and listened. The same death-like stillness pervaded the place. What light from without penetrated through the high, dark coloured windows was just enough to show me indistinctly the objects around. I took out my revolver and crept to the stairs, then suddenly I stopped, hearing voices. Men’s voices, indistinct, and at some distance. I turned aside, drawing stealthily, yard by yard, nearer to the sound. I dared not waste time, fearing what rash thing Strode might do if I stayed too long. The hangings on the walls helped me now as they had done before; a man could, with care, move along behind them without much fear of detection. A little farther on I seemed quite close to the voices, and recognized the Count’s; but the direction from which it came puzzled me, until I discovered a kind of grating or loophole in the door of the room from which the sound proceeded. I was preparing to look through, when suddenly I started, thunder-struck. The Count’s voice had ceased and another replied, a voice which I knew at once, the most dreaded in that kingdom—Rallenstein’s. As I recovered from the momentary shock of something more than surprise, I looked through the grating. Yes; there he was, the terrible Chancellor, sitting back in a great easy chair, at his side a small table with wine and fruit, and before him Furello, standing with hands clasped behind him, the fingers, as I noticed, for his back was towards me, working as with passion or strong excitement.
If the Count’s face (which I could not see) was ruffled, the Chancellor’s was as impassive and inscrutable as ever.
“You will hardly persuade me, my dear Count,” he was saying in that smooth masked voice which I knew so well, “that you have blundered through stupidity. You are no fool—or you would not be here—at all.” The sinister significance with which he spoke the last words was indescribable. “And,” he went on, “I tell you frankly, I am far from satisfied.”
Furello drew himself up and spoke more quietly now. “In matters of this sort at least I am not fool enough to look for explicit instructions. Your Excellency has been accustomed to convey your wishes in hints. Acting on them I have done your work faithfully. There are words better left unsaid, wishes better——”
“Pfui, Count!” Rallenstein interrupted with a wave of the hand. “You are trifling. You should know well enough what my real instructions were. I told you expressly the girl might be wanted. That it might be necessary to produce her.”
“At that time. But the time is past. Surely it was inconceivable that you really wished her kept alive. Who could have foreseen what you have just told me, the secret marriage of Prince Theodor?”
“That is all no business of yours,” the Chancellor returned, with a momentary lapse from his usual bland manner to a sneer that was almost brutal. “When I saved your neck from the gallows-rope, it was on the understanding that you should yield me implicit obedience, that the life I gave you was to do my will. You are not required to think for yourself, and you had best beware how you take upon yourself to do so. Let me remind you that that rope with the ugly knot in it still dangles. Enough! I do not trouble to concern myself with your motives—oh, do not protest”—for the other had made a deprecating gesture—“I am no fool either, and know men do not thwart my will for nothing—for nothing. So! And the girl is dead. She is dead?”
Such a searching look, so fierce, so threatening, so piercing, that I wondered how the Count had nerve to answer quietly. “Three days ago.”