“And the other?”
“Well, are you good with the sword or pistol? I presume you, as the challenged, will have choice of weapons.”
“My dear Tyrrell, fighting is out of the question. One man is a professional cut-throat; Szalay is a diplomat.”
“I have not handled a sword since I left the university,” his friend added.
“Naturally you don’t want to fight, no sane man does, especially over such imbecility. Though, of course, if you could hit this little bouncer it would be doing society a good service.”
“Well, I’ll go and see Paulssen at his quarters within the next hour,” Von Lindheim said, “and you shall know the result.”
So Szalay went off, in no very easy frame of mind.
“The worst of this business is,” my host remarked when we were alone, “that this Paulssen is himself a hot-headed young fool. He probably will not want this affair stopped, if he calculates on an opportunity for showing off. I must tell him he is only likely to make an exhibition of himself. Now, I’m sorry to hurry you. We may as well start together, and I will join you after the first act.”
On our way I found that the news I had been all day expecting had burst upon the city. Newsvendors were crying the “terrible suicide of Herr Rittmeister von Orsova.” The sudden announcement came as a shock to Von Lindheim, yet it did not seem to strike him as in any way unaccountable. I could see that he, like myself, knew more of the affair than he cared to tell. We bought a paper, and read it eagerly in the street. Von Orsova had been found by a servant early that morning lying dead in a corner of the great ball-room of the palace. By his side was an empty phial containing hydrocyanic acid; the unfortunate Rittmeister had evidently taken his own life, but the reason for the act was, up to that time, enveloped in mystery.
My companion looked very grave as he folded up the paper.