The Red Chancellor

by Sir William Magnay

“I know not for how long his Majesty may require my attendance,” he said regretfully. “His Majesty has lately been given to step outside his prescribed circle,” which was one way of hinting at eccentricity. “And the Rittmeister von Orsova does not seem likely to honour me to-night. It is altogether unfortunate, but you will give me the pleasure of dining here, and I will ask Von Orsova to meet you. You will not stay now? I am horrified at the idea of turning you out.”

I assured him that such violent emotion was unnecessary, and we left his rooms together, retracing our steps through the labyrinthine corridors and stairways of the old palace, my companion keeping up a string of explanations and apologies, which, of course, I politely deprecated. I was disappointed at missing Von Orsova, but he evidently was not bound for the Oberkammerer’s quarters that night.

Before a pair of emblazoned doors, guarded by a sentry, my host stopped and bade me good-night. “I must leave you here,” he said, “as my time, you understand, is not my own. If you wait for a few moments I will send a man to show you the way out of the palace.”

“It is quite unnecessary,” I protested. “Please do not trouble. I have the bump of locality.”

“The grand entrance will be closed, or your way would be simply down these stairs. As it is, your nearest way will be to go to the end here, then along the picture corridor on the right, pass through the last door, thence you will easily find your way down to the private entrance. The sentries will direct you. Good-night.”

With a flourish he passed through the grand doors into the royal apartments, and I went on through the suite of anterooms. Beyond the last I found myself in a long corridor, panelled with portraits from that bygone world to which my late companion was so tenaciously clinging. “Go through the last door,” he had said. But there were two, exactly facing each other, and as fate would have it I pushed through the left-hand one instead of the right.

I saw at once that I had made a mistake. I was in a curious room, something like a private box at the theatre, but on a very large scale. What light there was came through a half-closed window at the farther end. It was all so peculiar that my curiosity made me step forward and look through the window. A glance explained it. The little apartment overlooked the great ball-room where we had danced that evening, now in darkness save for the rays of a brilliant moon which streamed in full radiance through the row of windows on the opposite side, and for one other light. A pair of candles in a massive silver holder were placed on a console table, and showed me an extraordinary scene. Two men standing in a recess by a window facing one another, and one pointing a pistol at his companion’s breast. The light falling on the polished barrel showed it clearly and made me certain of that. But what astounded me most was my recognition of the two; the man with the pistol was the one who had accosted and questioned me in the wood that evening; I knew him in an instant; and the other was even less unmistakable—Von Orsova.

“What on earth are they doing?” I said to myself. “What fresh piece of tomfoolery is this?” For it looked childish enough; the two were so quiet and matter-of-fact that it might have been a rehearsal of a stage scene. After the Oberkammerer and his playing at mediævalism I was prepared for anything.

The men were talking, but in so low a tone that from the distance I could not catch their words. But the man still continued to cover Von Orsova’s heart with his pistol; they were not two paces apart. I wondered how long they were going to keep up the attitude, which was not particularly heroic or effective from my point of view.

At last the murmur of their voices ceased; there was a movement, and one which sent a thrill through me. Not so much the action as the agonized look on Von Orsova’s face as he threw up his hands with a gesture of despair, and, turning almost with a stagger to the wall, leaned against it with his head on his arm. The other never let the pistol drop—it was still pitilessly pointed at the Rittmeister. Then I realized that something serious was in progress. My idea was that the smaller man was trying to extort something from Von Orsova, having got him at a disadvantage. But I was wrong, at least in that my speculation did not go far enough.