Herr Eilhardt presently appeared and hurried to me with profuse apologies for having kept me waiting. The King was particularly exigeant that night, he had most unwarrantably taken it into his head to discuss certain arrangements, as though any one could be expected to enter into such subjects at midnight after a dance. This he confided to me confidentially, and then proceeded to look round for his other guest.
Von Orsova was not to be seen in the thinning crowd. With renewed and quite unnecessary apologies the Oberkammerer sailed off in search of him. Only to return alone.
“The Rittmeister is nowhere to be seen. He has doubtless already gone to my apartment, not knowing I should return here. Shall we ascend?”
We ascended. Herr Eilhardt occupied a comfortable suite of rooms, shut off, like a flat, in a distant block of the great rambling palace. He was evidently a man of taste, from the quaint old furniture, the pictures and curiosities, with which his bachelor quarters were crammed.
“The Herr Rittmeister is already here, yes?” he inquired of his servant.
“No, Oberkammerer,” the man answered, “the Herr Rittmeister has not yet arrived.”
My host led the way into one of the most delightful dens I ever puffed smoke in.
“Shall we make ourselves comfortable? Von Orsova must be here directly. He said he should come. Adolph! The wine.”
“You have a good time here,” I remarked with a glance at my surroundings, almost too gorgeous for a bachelor official.
He laughed. He seemed to have thrown off his official manner, to have become more human and less of a marionette.