We were going together en garçon to see Harff in Shylock, and accordingly sat down to a hurried meal.
It had been in progress scarcely ten minutes when word came in that Von Lindheim’s friend and colleague, Szalay, was waiting to see him on most urgent business.
“I told the Herr you were engaged, sir,” said the servant, “but he said he must see you without delay.”
My friend looked grave, and jumping up with a word of apology to me, hurried from the room. I concluded that the visit had to do with the discovery of Von Orsova’s death, and began to turn over in my mind whether I ought to say what I knew. But after all, I argued, it has nothing to do with these men; I had better perhaps ignore a matter of which I have no right to be cognizant. In a few minutes Von Lindheim returned, followed by his visitor.
“You are a man of the world, my dear Tyrrell, and we have come to put a case before you.”
I nodded assent.
“Szalay here has called to see me on a very serious matter indeed. He has been challenged to fight a duel.”
I whistled. “Who’s your man?”
“A ridiculous little ass in the Royal Guard here; a fellow who is always swaggering about full of his own importance, a certain Captain Rassler de Hayn, or Hahn, as he is nicknamed.”
“And the cause of the quarrel?”